


The Revolution of Fyodor Dolokhov

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Hundred Days War, Napoleonic Wars, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut, Swordfighting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 29,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Dolokhov has spent his life conquering the people he meets and the fights he starts. Never before has someone conquered him, but Clara Palecekev is about to change that.Here follows lots of whump, banter, sex and love. Not necessarily in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel the need to preface this: do I love the bad boy-changed-by-love trope? Yes. Is it unhealthy? Yes. It puts pressure on women to "save" men and sets up unrealistic expectations for real-life relationships.
> 
> ...but I love it as one of the most attractive things to play with in the fiction world, and there are many levels of subtlety to play with within that stereotype that make for a truly satisfying story. So! Off we go!

The long table was lain with elegantly arranged platters; the tapered candles threw soft light upon the assembled faces. Chatter was lively, the men were loud and the ladies generally declared delightful. Sparkling conversation was outdone only by the conquests and schemes being made and hatched, the romances beginning and the hearts being broken. Tomorrow morning, the upper echelons of Russian society would declare this dinner a great success – one of the definitive highlights of the season.

Fedyor Dolokhov was definitively bored.

He sat at Pierre Bezukhov’s side, enjoying the furtive looks being cast at him. Many faces risked a glance in his direction; Dolokhov met them head on, surprising them with a sudden, wolfish smile. He knew his own reputation, knew he brought with him the mix of intrigue and scandal. He reveled in it, traded with it, and he used it so often to his advantage that it was becoming more valuable to him than money. Especially among people like these.

Particularly the women.

Tonight, he was here as a guest of Pierre’s. Having decided that he had indeed been a beast of a man to one of his oldest friends, Dolokhov had been delighted to find Pierre during the march to Napoleon. Never one to shy away from impulse, Dolokhov had embraced him and delivered an immediate, and thoroughly heartfelt, apology. 

That had been three years ago. Dolokhov counted Pierre as one of his only friends.

There was no one else he trusted – and no one else he wanted to.

The blonde to his left had blonde curls and blue eyes. She would do for the evening’s distraction, Dolokhov decided. He treated her to the full force of his smile, and she responded as he knew she would, as they all did: she held out her hand, simpering. It was shamefully easy.

“Whom do I have the pleasure of admiring, this evening?” he asked warmly.

“Alena Mochekov,” she breathed, as he kissed her glove. “Is it true?” she whispered, looking at her lap. “The things they say you’ve done…?”

He tilted his head to one side.

“All of it.”

She gave a tiny squeal and giggled.

A portly man on her other side leaned across, interrupting.

“My dear, tell the Lady Totrovka here of your study of the piano…she is quite skilled at it, and would be happy to hear of your practicing.” He fixed Dolokhov with a pointed scowl, turning his daughter away with a protective arm.

Dolokhov shrugged. The world was full of women, after all. 

He looked around the table. Pierre was absorbed in his dinner. There was Countess Haminov, but she was otherwise eagerly engaged in conversation with the gentleman next to her.

Hmmm – there was a pretty little thing speaking to Sir Kovenchki. She was waving her gloved hands into the air with more exuberance than polite dinner conversation dictated. Dolokhov frowned, slightly. He didn’t feel inclined towards exuberance this evening. He felt like –

There. To his right, twice across, in profile. A straight nose, a flushed cheek, dark hair atop an elegant and slender neck. Who was that beautiful creature?

As if she sensed his eyes on her, she turned her head, dangling earrings sparkling against her pale skin. Her expression was appraising. She was the first woman – no – the first person - at this laughable dinner tonight to hold his gaze.

Whoever she was, she was breathtaking.

And tonight, he would have her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov encounters an odd thing: a woman he cannot charm.

Dolokhov lifted his chin and gave the lady a slight nod: he sensed she was not one to be won over with easy smiles. She continued to hold his gaze, then, frowning slightly, turned back to her conversation.

“Pierre.”

Pierre looked over from his discussion.

Dolokhov nodded to the woman he had been watching.

“Who is she?”

Pierre squinted at her. “I do not know. She is a beauty, though.”

Dolokhov sat back. He _must_ have her name.

Across from them, the elderly Sir Kovenchki had been following their conversation, and now spoke.

“You have admirable taste in women, Dolokhov, my boy! That is the Countess Clara Palecekev, and she is widowed two years now. She is worth a small fortune, I hear.” He leaned forward across the table; Dolokhov echoed him.

“She has gained a reputation for her singular beauty, but can be rather difficult, apparently. Very opinionated.” He gave Dolokhov a knowing look. “Many men have tried, and none have succeeded, there.” Kovenchki sat back in his chair.

Dolokhov gave a short, delighted laugh. Better and better.

“Excellent.”

Pierre looked rather alarmed.

“Careful, Fedya. I doubt your brazen style will impress her, and you would be wise to consider the power her position yields. If you push her too far…”

He gave Dolokhov a worried look. 

“Consider your already questionable reputation.”

“Ah, Petrushka.” Dolokhov watched Clara laugh at a joke. “How do you not know? Tonight, it is not _my_ reputation that is at stake.” He smiled. “It is the Countess Palecekev’s.”

 

XXXXX

 

Dolokhov left Pierre with some friends, deep in Tsarist political debate.

His confident stride and handsome looks drew the admiring gaze of both women and men alike, but Dolokhov was focused solely on meeting the Countess. He was getting impatient; his progress around the room had been impeded by more than one group of men wanting to shake his hand.

Finally, a group parted, and Dolokhov spotted the familiar shining dark hair he had been seeking. She was half-turned away from him, listening attentively to the woman next to her, her long figure draped in a dress of deep blue.

He strode forward. Clara turned around, and Dolokhov stopped in front of her, boot heels coming formally together. Sir Kovenchki was at Clara’s side.

“My dear Countess Palecekev, allow me to introduce to you the war hero Fyodor Dolokhov, one of our bravest men from the front.”

Dolokhov bowed, taking the elegantly proffered hand. He looked up: Clara was breathtaking. She was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He recovered quickly, kissing her glove and looking directly into her clear hazel eyes. 

She held herself differently, he noticed; the hand in his was that of a confident woman. A rush of desire flared in him as he pictured those cool, elegant features transformed by lust, those long limbs tangled with his.

“Countess,” he murmured into the satin across her knuckles. He straightened up, continuing to hold her hand in his.

“But why are you so late in joining us this season?” he asked. “To deprive St. Petersburg of such grace and beauty until now – that is pure tragedy.” He smiled at her, stroking the gloved underside of her hand with his thumb.

Clara did not return his smile, but regarded him steadily. “It so happens that your reputation precedes you this evening, Officer Dolokhov.”

Her Russian was impeccable, but it was not natural; it had a strange foreign lilt. She continued, her hazel eyes not leaving his.

“I would venture that the true tragedy lies in the trail of broken hearts you leave behind you.”

Dolokhov stared.

Kovenchki gave a nervous guffaw. “Dolokhov is one of the best men, Countess. I daresay the ladies cannot help themselves, with such a dashing specimen before them!”

“Perhaps not,” said Clara, dropping her hand. “But I can.”

She linked her arm through her friend’s, clearly finished. “Good evening,” she bent her neck, barely acknowledging him before turning and walking away, head held high.

Dolokhov stood still for a moment, mastering his temper.

Sir Kovenchki chuckled. “You mustn’t take it personally, Dolokhov. You are a brave man to try, although not the first to fail!”

Dolokhov gave him a tight smile, his eyes on Clara’s retreating figure. He was not a man who was easily refused.

He saw Pierre coming towards them.

“Petrushka!” Dolokhov clapped an arm around his shoulders in relief, pulling him close. “Come, let’s forget all this tedious conversation!”

He steered them through the crowd, Countess Palecekev’s rejection seething in his blood, fueling his need for distraction.

“Gentlemen!” he called out to a fellow group of soldiers as they passed. “You call yourselves men of action, do you, standing about like that?” He noticed a young lady with a delicious-looking rosebud mouth on one of the officer’s arms, staring at him, enthralled. He winked at her.

“Cards!” he shouted, leading the way to a table in the corner of the room. “Let us see who among you has the bravery to play me!” The men were following him, gathering around in excited chatter as he sat down and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m brave enough, Dolokhov!” claimed one, swaggering forward.

“Good man,” Dolokhov motioned to the seat across from him and looked up at him with a leisurely smile, a wolf reeling in his prey.

“Now. Let us see how bravely you can lose.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally see Clara's POV, and a game of cards reveals a bit more of both Dolokhov and Clara to each other.

A week of polite parlor afternoons and lavish dinners followed. The height of St. Petersburg society was in full splendour, and Dolokhov, to Pierre’s amusement and Natasha’s disapproval, seemed determined to consume it whole; one bottle of wine and one smitten woman at a time.

He was growing weary of it all; he longed for the action of the front lines with a desperation that crawled at his skin. It was always the same and he loathed it: loathed the endlessly rotating pattern of boring men and predictable women.

Except.

No matter how many drinks he threw down his throat, no matter how many women he distracted himself with – his brain refused to let him forget Clara Palecekev and her cold rejection of him.  
Whether it was her breathtaking beauty, or the fact that he was not used to being denied, he neither knew nor cared. The only thing that mattered was that he wanted her with a fierceness that threatened to consume him. 

And he _would_ have her.  
He stared out the Popovs’ large parlour windows. The snow had stopped falling and it lay still, reflecting the full moon above. The sparkling white expanse covered the vast lawns. Clara’s skin would be cool to the touch, he thought, relishing the idea of pressing his hot mouth against that elegant white throat. 

The card game that he was currently a part of was a rousing one, but it was failing to hold Dolokhov’s attention. He picked up the drink next to him and downed it.

“Dolokhov, how are you enjoying St. Petersburg this season?” asked a younger officer. “I hear of your many – er - victories.”

“By that measure, he’s certainly enjoying it more than _you_ are, Petrekoff,” rejoined his companion, and the gathering of men laughed.

Dolokhov smiled slowly, stretching his neck as he picked up a card and studied it.

“I am enjoying the many beauties that the city has to offer,” he said, his double meaning clear.

“Have you seen the Countess Palecekev?” sighed another man, and there were murmurs of appreciation throughout the group.

“I have met her, she is not to my liking,” countered Dolokhov. “In fact, I fail to see the attraction,” he lied, as he sought out a pale profile across the room, hazel eyes flashing in his memory.

“She did not meet your standards?”

“I was not interested. That is all. As for the rest of them - I do not have standards.”

“None?”

“She must have a pulse,” he drawled with a smirk, and the men burst into appreciative laughter once again.

XXXXX

Clara Palecekev was trying very hard to remain interested in the conversation she was currently a part of, but it was not easy. She was tired of the curiosity; weary of the leading questions about the status of her unattachment.

_Do these people talk of nothing else?_

Then she scolded herself; it was due to their kindness that she was here tonight. She tried, again, to focus. 

“Have you met any prospects in St. Petersburg, Countess?”

“No, I am afraid not.” Clara smiled warmly, but did not elaborate.

“Such a shame – there are many excellent men. Or at least, very handsome ones.”

Clara could not help it: she thought immediately of Dolokhov’s dark hair and expressive green eyes. 

Marya Talechek, a woman that Clara had befriended, spoke up.

“I agree. Officer Dolokhov is here tonight, and he is the most agreeable looking man I ever saw.”

This sparked a flurry of conversation.

“He is a scoundrel. I would not go near him.”

“I heard he is quite wicked, but apparently has a mother and sister, somewhere, sends them money.”

“He’s very decorated – they say he is fearless in battle.”

“He went right up to Clara, you know, the night of the Chekoff dinner.”

There was much exclaiming at this: all eyes swung towards Clara, who had remained silent.

The imperious duchess next to her put her hand on Clara’s elbow.

“He is a mere officer, my dear, and beneath you in both class and manners. It would have meant an awful scandal if you had accepted his advances.”

She smiled at Clara, then around at the rest of the group.

“But it is clear; he is the best-looking man in any room.”

There was much giggling that followed this statement. 

Clara rose, unable to bear it any longer. 

“I am in need of refreshment - please excuse me.” 

She left the women tittering and took a deep breath, taking a proffered drink from a passing servant with a tray. 

She was not stupid. She knew the effect Dolokhov had on women. She had heard rumours about him long before meeting him. His arrogance and his swagger: she had been prepared for it. The naked desire in his expression, the way he so clearly showed what he was thinking: _that_ she had not been expecting. 

She wandered slowly to the edge of the men gathered around the card table, watching with amusement.

She looked surreptitiously at Dolokhov as he placed a card down in the middle of the table and let out a triumphant laugh. She couldn’t deny he was handsome. Those eyes. And that mouth! She remembered the feel of his kiss burning through her glove, his heated gaze.

He looked up suddenly, smiling right at her as if he had overheard her thoughts.

“Admiring the game, Countess?” The men quieted, looking at her.

She swallowed, flustered. He could not read minds, she reminded herself.

“I would like to play.”

Her statement was met with several indulgent chuckles from the men: Dolokhov was not one of them. He remained still, studying her.

Sir Kovenchki chortled. “This is not a woman’s game, my dear,” he said. “I worry about your delicate sensibilities – “

“Nonsense, Kovenchki,” interrupted Dolokhov, suddenly leaning forward and shuffling a new deck. 

“She can lose her money with just as much skill as you do, I’m sure.”

Clara hid her surprise behind an arched eyebrow as the men laughed. She had not expected Dolokhov to speak up on her behalf. Perhaps he was just desperate enough for money that he would take it from anyone who was willing to play him.

She sat down in a proffered seat. The group relaxed back into easy chatter as Dolokhov began to deal cards around the table.

Count Pierre Bezukhov was to one side of her, he gave her a smile. 

“I am glad you are joining us for the season, Countess. How did you find Paris?”

At last. A conversation that wasn’t about her romantic prospects.

“I loved every moment I spent there. It is always hard to leave the city I grew up in.” She watched as Dolokhov flipped cards to each of them, quickly and expertly.

She sighed. “You have all made me so welcome here in St. Petersburg. It has become my second home, and I do so love to see different places of the world. I miss Paris, though, and speaking the language.”  
The gentlemen around the table smiled at her fondly.

Pierre nodded. “A life of such displacement would not be for me; you are more adventurous than I would be.”

Dolokhov rapped his knuckles on the table, impatient. “Let us start!”

The game began; Clara studied her hand and the bets were placed around the table to a chorus of exclamations and laughter.

Her turn.

Petrekoff moved closer to her on her left, leering. 

“You know the rules, Countess?”

She lifted her chin, looking at him. 

“I know enough to beat you, I imagine.”

There was a moment of silence at such a defiant statement from a woman. Then-

Dolokhov threw his head back in delighted laughter and slammed his palm flat on the table.

“There you are, Petrekoff, you had better watch such a firebrand! If I wasn’t playing myself I would bet money that she is right.”

Petrekoff’s eyes blazed. “You dare imply that a woman would win?”

Dolokhov scoffed. “I’m not implying anything. I am saying it outright.” He caught Clara’s eyes for a moment before he stared Petrekoff down, grinning. “Come now, gentlemen. Are we going to play a simple game of cards, or not?”

There was a murmur of agreement, and Petrekoff shrugged his shoulders. “Then let’s play.”

Clara drew a breath as calmly and quietly as she could, but she could feel her rapid pulse. She didn’t know Dolokhov’s motivation for fighting that she stay in the game, but she couldn’t deny that he had surprised her. 

She placed her card down and looked up. Dolokhov was watching her. He raised his eyebrows, then nodded at her, giving her a smile.

Clara returned it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov gets into a fight; perhaps his temper is betraying some building feelings for a certain Countess?

The next morning dawned cold and bright. There was no grey snow falling from the sky. The air was clear and bracing as both officers and gentlemen gathered at Pierre Bezukhov’s estate to boast to each other and practice their skills. 

The sound of clashing metal echoed in the empty end of the barn as Dolokhov caught Pierre’s sword with his, knocking it to the ground. 

“I cannot master this!” Pierre said in frustration, staring at his sword on the ground. Petrekoff and the others laughed, but Dolokhov came forward, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “You fought well and kept your stance. Give yourself credit, Petrushka. You are learning.”

He turned away and whipped his own sword through the air in front of him. “Who is next?”

Petrekoff jumped up, eager. “I am. It's time you tasted defeat at the hands of a true artist.”

Dolokhov shrugged, turning languidly to face him. Petrekoff paced, swirling his sword in the air.

“When you’re ready,” Dolokhov drawled lazily. 

Suddenly, Petrekoff came at him, swinging his sword through the air with a yell. Dolokhov was ready, he met Petrekoff’s blade with his own, the sound of steel meeting steel ringing through the room. There was a roar as the assembled men gave a cheer. 

Petrekoff fought with frantic energy and sloppy technique. Dolokhov easily blocked Petrekoff’s wild attempts with his own rapid parries. Their swords came together, stilled and pointing at the ground, crossed. The two men paced, out of breath, around each other.

Dolokhov slid his sword along Petrekoff’s. “You fight with vigour, Petrekoff, but you cannot hope to win.”

Petrekoff smiled. “I always win.”

Dolokhov laughed, taunting. “Not the other night at cards. The Countess Palecekev made certain of that.” 

Petrekoff glared. “The Countess may be beautiful, but needs to learn her place. The bitch had no right to be gambling with the men, and you-“

He didn’t finish. Dolokhov had brought up their swords in a bind, and was suddenly on the attack, his thrusts fierce. The men watching were aware for the first time that morning of just how Dolokhov had earned his ruthless reputation as a fighter; he looked positively wild. 

The crossing blades flashed in the morning sunlight, the gathered men shouting encouragement. Dolokhov had years of experience; but it was something else driving him. He was holding nothing back, his movements getting faster.

In a few lightning strokes, he had the tip of his blade at Petrekoff’s throat. He pressed it into the skin. The room was silent; the only sound was their hard breathing. Petrekoff scowled, defeated. 

Dolokhov leaned forward. “Learn to lose like a man, and for God’s sake, Petrekoff, learn to handle a joke.” He threw his own sword onto the ground and turned away.

He made it two steps before he heard Pierre’s cry of warning, felt the blow to the back of his head. He turned around again, just in time to catch Petrekoff’s fist against the side of his mouth. 

Petrekoff’s other fist came up and hit him on his right temple; he felt a heavy metal ring catch on the skin of his cheek, felt the blood well up immediately.

He heard the other men cry foul as his head whipped to the side, beads of sweat from his hair mingling with drops of blood as they arced through the air before landing on the ground. 

Recovering from his initial surprise, Dolokhov’s fist connected with Petrekoff’s side, raining sharp combination jabs into his ribs. Once, twice, three times, again on the other side, and again, the air leaving Petrekoff’s lungs in punched wheezes. He lost his footing and stumbled backwards.

Dolokhov followed every step, landing another solid hit to Petrekoff’s face, followed by a brutal uppercut. Petrekoff wavered, then fell to his knees. 

Dolokhov spat blood onto the ground, standing above the younger man.

“Coward,” he hissed. “I cannot abide a man who attacks when another’s back is turned.”

The other men had rushed forward, some to shake Dolokhov’s hand, some to decry Petrekoff, and two to help the unfortunate man to his feet and help him away.

Pierre turned to Dolokhov, shaking his head. 

“This is why I do not like fighting, my friend. You were angry back then, and it made you violent. It does no good.”

Dolokov grinned, blood forming in the ridges between his teeth where he’d been hit; the welt on his face red and raised. 

“It does me all the good in the world, Pierre. If I did not fight, my blood would boil in my veins.”

Pierre laughed, clapping a hand on Dolokhov’s shoulders. “We must find you a better distraction, Dolokhov!”

Dolokhov put his own arm around Pierre’s as they walked out of the barn. “I can think of an excellent one, Pierre, and she will be at the dinner tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So I did some research - the derogatory use of "bitch" has been around since ancient Greece, and became associated with a slur on women in the 15th century. The Russian equivalent is "suka." So it existed, and Petrekoff's a jerk (in case you didn't notice) so he would have used it. And I needed a quick insult to Clara that would provoke Dolokhov.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stakes between Dolokhov and Clara are raised. They both have tempers, and they both lose some control.

There was merriment in the air at the Nimenoffs’ that evening. Winter had St. Petersburg in its cold, dark grasp for too long already; the warm dining rooms and crowded assembly halls were beginning to stir recklessness into the hearts of their guests. 

Against everything that she had been taught, and knowing how scandalous it was, Clara Palecekev was unable to put Fyodor Dolokhov from her mind. She could not stop from going over and over his delighted laugh, their shared smile across the cards.

It must never happen. Nothing _was_ happening.

She sat with Marya and a few ladies in the corner of the room, waiting for dinner to be announced. Guests arrived; Clara gave into temptation each time to see the new arrival, and scolded herself internally at her disappointment each time it failed to be Dolokhov.

She had worked herself into such a froth of self-righteous anger at the hypothetical Dolokhov’s imaginary advances, that it was something of a surprise to see him in the flesh, entering the room with his typical swagger, a young lady with smooth chestnut hair on his arm.

Clara was shocked; Dolokhov’s handsome features were marred by an angry cut on his right cheek and dark bruising around his eye. If he had a hint of wildness to him before, he now looked positively dangerous.

She would not let herself admit that it that it made him all the more attractive. 

She did not look his way during the course of the meal. She could hear the sound of his laughter, the silly giggling of the woman with the chestnut hair. 

Clara did not enjoy her dinner.

The evening continued after the dinner plates were taken away; the night falling dark and silent outside. The candles were lit, and the guests gathered in the drawing room.  
Clara and Marya found themselves drawn into a friendly game of cards with a few others, including Pierre and Natasha Bezukhov.  
They were about to begin when a high-pitched laugh reached the group.

“Oh my favourite! Oh, Fedya, let’s join! Can we join?” The chestnut-haired young woman had arrived and stood gleefully before them, standing next to the tall Dolokhov.

He caught her gloved hand in his and kissed it. “Of course, Tatiana.” He smiled.

“Anything the lady desires.” He crushed her hand to his chest playfully, and she squealed again. 

Clara thought she could feel the beginnings of a headache.

She looked across at Natasha, who gave her an almost imperceptible grin, and felt a bit better.

Dolokhov and Tatiana sat down, and Pierre began dealing the cards. He addressed the group.

“The Countess surprised us the other night at cards, didn’t she, Dolokhov? You must watch out for her,” he said to Tatiana, giving her a friendly smile. 

Dolokhov gave a leisurely shrug. “It was a lucky win in a game made _of_ luck, Pierre. I’m sure the Countess herself would agree.”

Clara’s temper, already short, flared. “I doubt you would say that had _you_ won, Officer Dolokhov.”

Dolokhov leaned back smugly, his arm around Tatiana. “I suppose you’ll find out in a moment, once this game has ended, exactly what I say when I win.”

“Tu le feras sans doute; Ce n'est un secret pour personne que vous trichez dans tous les jeux de cartes dans tous les salons de la Russie,” declared Clara icily.  
_No doubt you will; it is no secret that you cheat your way through every card game in every parlour in Russia._

She had switched to French. She could handle herself better in the familiar language; Russian was too slippery on her tongue.

Dolokhov sat forward. He answered her, the French tripping easily off his tongue, low and dangerous.

“Peut-être devriez-vous connaître un homme avant de faire une telle accusation.“  
_Perhaps you should get to know a man before you make such an accusation._

Dolokhov’s face was a mask of white anger, the cut on his cheek contrasting sharply with the glittering fury in his eyes.

Clara lifted her chin and glared at him before answering in her native English. “Perhaps I am the only woman who does not wish to.” 

The look on Dolokhov’s face was a storm of emotion as he replied, his accent stilted.  
“You are correct, Countess. You are the only one.”

She had not expected it. French, they all knew, but English, she had not thought he would. The rest of the faces around them were blank. Clara would have laughed if she had not been feeling such a mix of anger and surprise.

“Excuse me.” She stood abruptly, not able to face Natasha and Pierre’s bewilderment, or Marya’s concern, and glided smoothly out of the room. 

She turned gratefully into the hallway leading to the music room, empty and dark, a lone candelabra standing at the end, the candles flickering softly in the darkness.

She closed her eyes, desperately reaching for control. She heard slow footsteps; she both hoped and feared that they were not Marya’s. She knew they weren't.

She opened them again, and Dolokhov was standing before her, his face in shadow.

“No one saw me come this way.” He bowed. 

“You have come to apologize,” Clara said, stonily.

Dolokhov stood upright, taking a step towards her. She took a step back.

“You accused me of cheating.”

Clara moved back again; Dolokhov took another step.

“That is only one of the many disreputable things that are said of you, Officer Dolokhov. Consider yourself fortunate I made no mention of the others.”

Dolokhov advanced again; Clara felt the wall behind her back. 

He stood before her, close enough to see his green eyes reflect the candlelight, shimmering. His hands landed lightly on the bare skin of her upper arms. “And what are these disreputable things you have heard?”

Clara found she couldn't speak. She was only aware of how close his face was to hers. She could see the varying dark shades of bruising near his eye. Those lips, always seemingly raised in a smirk, looked sinfully full and swollen on one side. 

“What has happened to you?” she murmured, raising a tentative hand, trembling, to his mouth. He closed his eyes, pressing his lips to the satin of her gloves. 

“You,” he whispered, and dropped his mouth to hers. 

He started soft, a tender brushing of his lips on hers. He kissed her again, more firmly, letting her feel the rasp of his mustache. Clara took a quick, rapid breath.

Another kiss, this time firm against her neck, sucking the skin there ever so slightly. Once more, harder, his tongue warm against her throat. Clara’s hands went up and clutched at the front of his shirt.

Another slow, warm kiss against her throat, and this time she felt the suggestion of his teeth, barely grazing her skin, before turning it into a pull against his tongue.

Her fingers gathered more fabric, clenching harder.

Dolokhov smiled, then blew gently along the trail of kisses along her neck, goosebumps erupting on Clara’s skin. His hands came down onto her waist, stilling her.

His mouth pressed feather light on her jaw, then back down her neck, leaving burning patches where his mustache had rasped against her skin. She arched her neck, gasping in short breaths. He continued down her skin, agonizingly slowly, hot pulls of his tongue on her skin in his mouth, until he reached the top of her collarbone, then licked, a fierce swipe of his tongue, making her jump.

Her jump seemed to rein him in, he pulled back and bent his forehead to the wall, resting it there, his harsh breaths dusting her skin. He leaned away slightly, his eyes searching hers in the dark. She could feel his heart beating a rapid rhythm under her hands. 

“Fedya,” she whispered, and she saw his eyes widen as she raised her lips to his.

There was a brush of warmth, the sensation of surprise at the gentleness of them, contrasting with the rough tickle of his mustache, and then-

A loud scraping of chairs in the room outside, a loud shout and a cheering of voices raised together, swinging into song: the moment broken. Clara let go of his shirt, and he took a step back. 

“Please,” she begged, not knowing what she was asking, whether she wanted him to stay or go. 

His features hardened, and he swept into a bow once more. Her hand was at her throat, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He straightened. 

“I will tell no one, Countess. Your reputation is safe.” He turned and strode out of the hallway, leaving Clara gasping for breath, her lips burning where they had touched his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The language thing: it would be pretty typical of all of these men and women to speak multiple languages, French of course being one of them. English wouldn't have been as common, and Clara's past is still fairly mysterious, she was betting Dolokhov didn't know it. I like the idea of these two constantly surprising each other; as she did during cards, it was his turn this time round.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara gives Dolokhov a taste of his own medicine.

Dolokhov strode away and Clara leaned back against the wall, reeling from their encounter. She was struggling to breathe: she was furious with herself for letting that happen.  
And she was worried. She had no idea if Dolokhov, with his unpredictability, would keep to his word. He could very well storm out into the room and tell every single person in it that he had been hidden in the dark hallway with Clara Palecekev. 

It wouldn’t matter if people believed him or not. The damage would be done. 

She would have to trust that he wouldn’t say a thing.

And the truth she must face; the possibility that the whole moment meant nothing to the man whose life was no doubt made of up of dozens of those moments, over and over again, with different women.

She smoothed the skirt of her gown and walked back out into the room, moving through the crowd until she saw Natasha and Marya.

“Clara! Are you alright?” Marya reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You have courage, confronting Dolokhov like that.”

“You both looked very angry, but it was good for him to be called out,” grinned Natasha. 

Clara looked at them both, gathering reassurance from their friendly faces. 

“There is something about him that I can’t help responding to. I shouldn’t have insulted him, he is too wild.” She lowered her voice. "I-there is something that I hope he will remain discrete about, but I am afraid of what he will do." 

Natasha shook her head, looking thoughtful. 

“Pierre and Dolokhov met up on the march to Napoleon, years ago. Pierre said Dolokhov came up to him and gave him the most sincere apology he had ever heard. He has been a true and loyal friend to us both, since then. I can say with absolute conviction that he is a man of his word.”

She sighed, lost in memory.

“I used to think he was not a man to be trusted, but I was wrong. Hot-headed he may be, but there is something deeper, there.” 

This surprised Clara. It did not fit with her assessment of Dolokhov as a callous man who stomped on people to get what he wanted. 

Did she have him wrong?

Her eyes were drawn to him, seated in a group, Tatiana back at his side. It did not escape her notice that his arm was no longer around the young lady, his upper body turned away from her. His expression was bored as she watched him look around the room.

He saw her looking, and she drew a breath, the skin on her neck growing heated in the spots where his mouth had been exploring minutes before. 

Pure, unadulterated desire. It was flooding through her system, making her dizzy, as he lifted his glass to her in a silent toast, and drank it down in a single, fluid motion.

XXXXX

Dolokhov was in a fine temper. 

He wasn’t sure what had stopped him in the hallway with Clara – noise and distraction were nothing new to him, after all – but he had reigned himself in, and was cursing himself for it now. His breeches were uncomfortably tight, and he subtly readjusted his position in his chair.

He could have had her.

Any other woman, and he would have continued. 

Any other woman, and he would never have been as interested. The Countess had fascinated him from the start, and his feelings might be inconvenient, but he had never shied away from acting on them in his life.

His eyes met hers across the room, and a telltale flush crept across her neckline, although her face remained imperious.

He raised his glass, watching her, then swallowed his drink down, mind made up.

Dolokhov may very well be risking more than he ever had in his pursuit of Clara Palecekev, but he would damn well go down swinging.

XXXXX

 

The night was coming to an end; the line of carriages outside the doors had begun, and there were fond goodbyes being exchanged as the guests walked about the room for the last part of the night.  
Dolokhov was deeply frustrated with the whole evening. He found Clara alone, standing in front of a large set of windows and a settee, tucked out of sight in a corner of the room.

She looked up as he approached. 

He stopped in front of her, letting his gaze fall openly to her neckline. He looked back up at her face and saw coolness in her hazel eyes.

“Where is the lovely Tatiana?” 

Dolokhov leaned against the window frame opposite her, crossing his arms and smiling. “I have decided she is not to my tastes.”

Clara stared at him. 

“You're content to forget her so easily? She clearly adored you.”

Dolokhov shrugged, looking out the window. “I didn’t return the feeling. I was not inclined towards that particular indulgence this evening.”

His eyes met hers. 

“I felt no desire for her.” 

“And so you have come in search of that which you _do_ desire.”

Dolokhov came up to her and ran a gentle hand down her arm. He was rewarded with a shudder, and Clara’s eyes closed.

He leaned forward, and whispered into her dark curls. “I do desire you. More than anything.”

She opened her eyes, angry.

“Am I to join the long line of women that have been the object of this desire, only to be forgotten for the next one?”

Dolokhov’s brows came together.

“I – “

Clara moved into him, letting her lower body press gently against his. He gave a sharp inhale.

“I have been married, Officer Dolokhov, I am no innocent flower.” She let her gloved fingers stroke with a butterfly touch down his chest, before hovering at his waist. 

He closed his eyes, his body vibrating with need.

“And perhaps it is no secret that I find you handsome,” 

Her gloved fingers danced lower,

“and perhaps I find you dashing, and alluring,”

She stroked lower still, fondly, over the bulge in his breeches, making him gasp and grit his teeth.

“But you have made it no secret that one woman is much the same as the next, as far as you are concerned.” 

He was staring at her, barely able to control himself. She gave him another firm stroke, making him jump. He swore.

“You are not just any woman,” he growled. 

Clara reached up, her hand on his officer’s jacket, and pulled his lips to hers. She sighed, and traced the tip of her tongue over lip, pulling his swollen bottom lip between hers and sucking on it gently. She opened her mouth to his, and he gave into her, willingly and completely, stroking his tongue against hers, and for a few blissful moments, there was nothing but Clara. She was mint and snow and cool ice, her body melting into his, and he was lost in her, his hands traveling down the back of her dress, her low moan at the back of her throat. He would devour her, he was on fire the feel of her in his arms, his tongue stoking the heat between them - 

He felt her put a hand on his chest, pushing against him slightly, and they drew back.

Clara smiled, her hazel eyes dark with lust. 

“You are correct. I am not just any woman.” She stepped away, and it was all he could do not to reach out for her.

“And I am not to be treated as such.” 

He stepped forward, but she arched an eyebrow, and he stopped.

“For once, your own reputation does not work in your favour, Fedya. I doubt you can swagger your way into what you _desire_ , this time.”

She leaned against the window frame, crossing her arms in a nonchalant imitation of him, moments earlier. 

“Perhaps,” she said, giving him a wicked grin, throwing his own words back to him, “I am not inclined towards this particular indulgence, this evening.”

She bent her knees in a graceful curtsy, and turned and left the alcove, chin in the air. 

Dolokhov fell back, throbbing with lust and anger, hitting the back of his head on the wallpaper and slamming a fist quietly into the wall.

He would be telling himself quite a lie if he said that his interest in Clara Palecekev still only went as far as a simple conquest.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story ramps up: war looms again, and Clara and Dolokhov see another side to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this: I wanted to give Clara and Dolokhov a chance to get to know each other without anger or passion getting in the way. I thought long and hard (and wrote several unused paragraphs!) about a situation that would force them into a more pleasant conversation. Hopefully this doesn't feel too out of left field, and they still have a way to go. :)

Morning dawned fine; light was streaming into parlour and dining room windows across St. Petersburg. It was a long way until spring, and yet the sunbeams brought particular warmth to spirits throughout the various households.

In the soldier’s training barracks of the Imperial Russian Army, however, the mood was dark. Rumours of Napoleon’s escape were swirling through the dining hall, gathering strength and speed.

“It cannot be true, gentlemen,” said Petrekoff gaily, tearing bread with relish and stuffing a piece in his mouth. “He was beat and he is in exile, and that is the end of it!”

The others at the table remained silent. For most of the men, the horrors of the battlefield were a very recent memory. Petrekoff banged a fist on the table.

“Come, Dolokhov, you know I am right! He is in exile!” 

Dolokhov shook his head.

“I do not share your confidence, Petrekoff. Napoleon is a cunning man, and if he has escaped, we are facing another war.”

Petrekoff grinned. “If that is the case, I am ready!”

Dolokhov studied the younger man. Petrekoff had never seen action. Dolokhov himself missed the clean thrill of the front lines, the release of adrenaline, always.

But even he did not seek war on the scale of the one they had all just barely survived.

Petrekoff stared at the long faces around the table. 

“I don’t understand you! The chance to fight, for Russia!”

Dolokhov had enough. 

“We have already fought for Russia!” he said, an edge to his voice. “We fought and it cost us! I love a good battle as much as any soldier but you must see that you are too eager for bloodshed, Petrekoff!”  
The men nodded, a few shouted out agreement.

Petrekoff clicked his tongue. 

“Are you all cowards-?”

Dolokhov stood up so fast he knocked over his water, which spilled onto the table. The low-level anger running through his veins, and his frustration over Clara, had taken over. He reached across and gripped Petrekoff by the lapels of his uniform.

“These soldiers have risked their lives,” he growled. “And they are men of honour. You are nothing but an untested little boy.” He pulled Petrekoff forward, causing him to wince. “Are you going to respect your brothers in arms, or do I have to teach you another lesson with my fists?”

He released him with a shove, causing Petrekoff to lose his balance and sprawl backward onto the floor. There were jeers at the young man, whose face was red with anger. 

He glared up at Dolokhov.

“You will regret this, Dolokhov.”

Dolokhov gave him a rueful smile. “I don’t believe in regret.” He straightened his own jacket and marched out of the room, leaving a humiliated Petrekoff behind.

 

XXXXX

 

The aria ended on one high, still water note. There was a moment of complete silence, and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause.

Clara opened her eyes, wiping a solitary tear away before joining in the acclamation. She looked over at Marya on her right, who smiled back at her with tears in her eyes.

The crowd moved slowly to the grand atrium just outside the upper balcony doors, chattering with excitement, but Clara and Marya remained silent, unwilling to talk and break the spell.

They walked to an unoccupied space in the crowd. Marya smiled at Clara.

“Can we so easily go back to discussing lace and necklines this evening, after witnessing Dido’s heartbreak to such an extent?”

Clara laughed, her eyes smarting at the mention of the beautiful lament they had just witnessed.  
“Not easily, no.”

Marya, facing the doors, gave a nod. “There’s Pierre and Natasha.”  
She gave Clara a shrewd look. “And Dolokhov is with them.” She smiled as Clara turned.

Clara had not seen him since their confrontation a few nights ago. The bruises near on his face were fading, no longer any trace of swelling around the dazzling green eyes. The cut on his cheek was a single red line above his easy smile, his hair dark against his red officer’s collar. 

“Hmmm,” said Marya, still smiling at Clara. “I see he is without a woman on his arm, this evening.”

Clara widened her eyes at her friend in warning as the Beuzkhovs and Dolokhov approached.

“I didn’t know you would be here, dear Marya, dear Clara!” exclaimed Natasha, giving them both a kiss. “What a delightful surprise!”

Marya laughed as she and Clara curtsied in greeting to the men. “I was not entirely sure myself. Clara had to fairly drag me here. She is a great lover of the opera, but I am not always so.”

Clara rose, looking at Dolokhov, his eyes burning into hers. 

For the last few days she had been fighting, constantly, against her own memory. Her senses were continuously set ablaze during the most inconvenient times. Demure teas and quiet afternoon salons were interrupted by remembering his mouth on her neck, the lust written openly on his face in the alcove.  
The images played across her mind now, his tall figure standing proudly before her, and the room grew suddenly smaller. 

Pierre nodded. “I confess I am the same. Dolokhov comes as often as he can. What is it that you love about it, my friend?”

Dolokhov’s gaze lingered on Clara’s, speaking directly to her.

“The opera is simply passion put to music. Do you not agree, Countess?”

Clara swallowed, unable to look away, her heart beating in her chest. She could think of nothing but his burning, passionate kiss in the alcove. 

The bells chimed, and she was saved from having to answer. The friends parted again, Dolokhov giving Clara a last, heated look, before turning and leaving with the others. 

“My dear Clara,” said Marya, smiling. “You are in much deeper than I thought.”

 

XXXXX

 

“Clara, you have utterly convinced me,” said Marya as she and Clara stood with Natasha after the performance. “I will see every opera that is written.”

Clara laughed. “I did not convince you, Marya. It was the music itself.” She looked over and saw Adrik Petrekoff coming towards them through the crowd, a look of intent on his face.

“Oh, no,” Natasha breathed, seeing him as well. “Quickly, let’s –“ 

They didn’t have time; he was in front of them.

“Countess,” said Petrekoff, ignoring the others. 

Clara barely inclined her head.

“I am honoured to be standing near such beauty this evening.”

“Yes,” returned Clara. “You are right to compliment them: Marya and Natasha look so lovely, don’t they.”

Petrekoff blinked, and tried again.

“Your particular beauty is unsurpassed. We would look so well together this evening. It would be a shame to deprive these people of the sight of us together.”

Clara had heard many self-indulgent advances from men; this was one of the worst.

Petrekoff smiled. 

“What is wrong, Countess? Don’t you agree?”

Clara marshalled her frustration. 

“I –“

“You are speechless, I see.” He leaned forward, smirking. “Don’t worry – you are not the first woman to be affected by my charms.”

Marya put a warning hand on her elbow as Clara opened her mouth again.

“Officer Petrekoff, I –“

He moved suddenly to her side, putting one sweaty hand heavily on her back, stroking a finger down her spine. Clara flinched.

“No need to be embarrassed, Countess. You are clearly in need of a truly dashing partner, tonight.”

“Yes, and he is here,” came the familiar deep voice, and there was Dolokhov, standing tall in front of them. 

“Ladies,” he said, boot heels together. He held out his hand. “Countess, would you care for a turn about the room?” 

Clara’s feelings surrounding Dolokhov had become so complicated she could not tell one from the other, could not separate attraction from lust, complexity from confidence.  
But she knew that line had been crossed long ago, knew it was beyond her ability to refuse him as she took his hand and moved away from Petrekoff with relief. 

Dolokhov’s face registered complete astonishment; he had not expected her to actually accept his invitation.

She tried hard to ignore Marya and Natasha’s smiles and Petrekoff’s scowl as Dolokhov steered them steadily away, tucking her hand gently into his offered arm. 

They began to walk the room together through the crowd. Faces turned their way; whispered exclamations followed them as they passed. 

“You continue to surprise me, Countess,” he said, in French.

Clara looked at him, the sound of her beloved language coming so easily from his mouth. 

“So do you. Thank you for the assistance.”

“Knowing you, I hardly think you needed it, yet I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to put Petrekoff in his place.”  
Clara smiled, amused. She was trying to ignore the heat spreading through her body at being in such close proximity to his. She thought of the last place she had touched him with her hands, of their last conversation, and let out a calming breath, willing herself to steadiness.

Dolokhov looked down at her, seemingly reading her thoughts.

“What do you say to a temporary ceasefire between us?”

Clara laughed, releasing some of the tension. “Gladly. And we do not have to speak in French, although I admit I am touched by the gesture.”

“We all share a knowledge of French, and yet I suspect that it is not your original language?”

“No. No it is not. I was not born in Paris, although I lived there until I was married. My husband was Russian.”

Dolokhov regarded her, that focus of his entirely on her. She continued.

“I was very young, and he was – not.” She squared her shoulders, staring straight ahead. “And quite cruel.”

Dolokhov said nothing, listening intently.

“My– it was only my father and younger brother – it was an extremely advantageous match if I accepted the Count’s offer, and I would have done anything if it meant their happiness and security. They were – unwell – and they were my entire world.”

He gave her a look that she couldn’t read, then asked lightly, “And where is it that you call home?”

She closed her eyes for a brief second; laughter, warm hearths, summer breezes and emerald green hillsides.

“Ireland.”

“So it is in English that we will speak.”

Clara opened her eyes to see Dolokhov’s green eyes crinkled in amusement as she absorbed his halting words, the vowels strange on his tongue. 

She smiled in genuine delight. 

“I was very surprised when you answered me in English, the other night.”

He laughed, remembering the look on her face that evening, no doubt. He spoke again, stumbling slightly on the word.

“Soldier.”

She gathered his meaning; she supposed he picked up many languages and words in his travels.

“Is it a very hard life, to be a soldier?” She switched back to Russian; she wanted him to speak freely, rather surprised to find that she was very curious about him.

“It is all that I know,” he replied casually. “There has been nothing else.”

“Does it not worry your family?” Clara could have bit her tongue at her own impertinence, but it had slipped out. 

He looked at her for a moment, as if coming to a decision. Then, with a slight nod, he said,

“My mother and sister worry a great deal about me, yes.” 

“A sister! I wish I had a sister.”

His smile widened, and he said, “Mine would like you very much, I have no doubt. She is not well, but spirited, and so loves it when she sees it in others.”

Clara was speechless.

Dolokhov stopped, facing her, the haughty confidence back in place.

“Thank you for the conversation, Countess. I think you have no need of my assistance any longer; I do not see Petrekoff."

Clara let go of his arm, and he bowed over her hand, before marching away, leaving her with a very different impression of the man she thought she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War and Peace has epilogues that technically end in 1820, but I've decided to play with the literary timeline a bit, here, and have my story take place in 1813, after the first epilogue. It's not canon, but honestly, none of this is, and I wanted an excuse to have Dolokhov to still be in uniform. :D
> 
> Clara being from Ireland: technically, she would have grown up speaking Irish (Gaelic) but the British occupation of Ireland would have made sure that everyone spoke English, anyways, and Gaelic would have been too much of a stretch for Dolokhov to realistically know. (Realistically within this story, at least!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with Pierre and Natasha; Dolokhov begins to admit to himself that he has feelings for Clara.

“Come with us to the Mikhailoffs this evening, Dolokhov.”

Dolokhov looked up from buttering his bread at Pierre’s anxious face.

“No, I will find my own amusement tonight. I cannot stand another evening stuffed into a drawing room.” He looked over and caught Natasha’s frown.

“But thank you for the invitation,” he amended.

Pierre’s look of worry deepened.

“I do wish you would, my friend. It would help you take your mind off things.”

Dolokhov shook his head and stood up, stalking to the window. The room was stifling: the gentle clink of silverware, the concern on his friends’ faces. He looked at the snow outside and longed to be outside rather than in.

Natasha took a sip of tea. “What things?” she asked Pierre quietly.

“You know it is said more and more frequently that Napoleon has escaped, and I think Dolokhov could very easily be sent to war.”

Natasha gave a little cry. “No, oh, no! Dear Pierre, we cannot possibly go to war again!”

Her voice became even quieter.

“I think our Dolokhov has feelings for a certain Countess – perhaps that could be what he is – “

Dolokhov strode back to the table angrily.

“I can hear you, for God's sake!”

Natasha and Pierre had the grace to look abashed.

Dolokhov flung himself back into his chair and fixed them with a glare.

“I have never felt – “ he stopped, clearing his throat, angry at himself, at them, at Clara.

“I know the kind of man I am, and the Countess is well aware of her own position.”

Pierre grasped his hand on the table.

“You do not give yourself enough credit, Fedya. You are a different man than the one I knew years ago, and you are a good one.”

Dolokhov allowed himself a brief moment of pure indulgence: a pair of hazel eyes, looking softly up at him, her body beneath his, tangled in bed sheets. Him, savouring a very different kind of morning before a very different kind of breakfast.

He laughed. “I cannot do this.”

He got up again, unable to sit still.

Natasha reached out a hand to him uselessly, imploring.

"Dolokhov, please come with us tonight. I want to see you happy, and it will do you good to lift your spirits."

He paced in front of them, his morning coat whirling behind him.

"I will come." He stopped. "But not another word about Clara Palecekev." He grinned suddenly at them.

“As for Napoleon, let the bastard try. I’ve had enough of society: I’m ready for a fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, because the next one is long!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara teaches Fedya another lesson, and a surprise announcement is made.

Dolokhov slammed the winning card down at the table, and stood up, hauling Pierre with him and kissing him on both cheeks. 

“I am unstoppable, I tell you!” he shouted over the roar of approval at his win. The men at the table cheered. One handed him a drink, which he tossed back in one swallow.

The men roared again, and Dolokhov turned in a slow victory circle, arms in the air, laughing, taking in the crowded room. 

He saw Clara in the corner with Marya, watching him with her usual aloof superiority. His blood was running hot in his veins, but he knew he could not have Clara, not really. Or at least, not in the way that he was starting to really want to.

 

XXXXX

 

Clara watched Dolokhov as he spun slowly on the spot, arms in the air, his smile wide. She could not reconcile this brash behaviour with the gentleman who quietly told her of his family, just as she could not mix their passionate encounters with his equally charming manners. She could not figure the man out. Was he the scoundrel and rogue everyone said of him? Or did he simply find the constraints of society too boring to live within?

And what of the tales of gambling and hustling? She had heard horror stories of young men being taken in by the dashing Dolokhov, of paying out inordinate sums of money to the man. Yet Pierre and Natasha claimed he was a good man, claimed he had changed for the better.

Clara stood up.

“I am going to play him,” she said to Marya, deciding on the spot and beginning to walk towards the game.

“Clara!” Marya groaned in exasperation. “You know I support every endeavour of yours, but why must you set these challenges for yourself?”

“It’s alright,” Clara said, over her shoulder with a smile. “I shall win, you know.” 

She approached the table, the men already settling down, preparing for another round. 

“Ah!” Sir Kovenchki smiled at her condescendingly. “It is our Countess of cards! You are here to join our game again tonight, my dear?”

She looked right at Dolokhov, who was leaning back in his chair, his officer’s jacket open and hanging loose.

“I am here to ask Officer Dolokhov a question,” Clara said, in an assertive a voice as she could.

Dolokhov leaned forward, a slow, feline smile on his lips sending a rush of warmth through her body.

“I hope I have the correct answer, Countess.” 

“Would you care to test your claim that you are unstoppable at cards?”

There was a pause. No one said a word. Dolokhov smirked. “I do not think that is a good idea.”

Clara stood her ground. 

“Shall I phrase it another way?” She tilted her head to the side, smiling. 

“Would you like to bet?”

Dolokhov looked surprised, then gave a full-throated chuckle before reaching for the deck.

“Very well, _Clara._ ”

She started at the casual use of her first name, it was the first time he had called her by it. It seemed personal, immediate. She took in the self-satisfied look on his face - he had meant to fluster her.

He raised his eyebrows, smiling.

“I will take that bet.”

There was mumbling around the table as Clara sat herself with as much dignity as she could manage on the chair across from him.

Dolokhov, shuffling cards, began to deal, but Clara put her hand on the table, causing him to stop.

“Before we begin.”

He tapped the card edges on the table, waiting. His eyes were blazing with intensity, and Clara had to look away for a moment, reminded of a shadowy hallway, his tongue laving her skin.

“Yes?”

Clara took a deep breath and looked back at him.

“I will deal.”

Sir Kovenchki laughed nervously. “My dear Countess, this is most unusual-“

“I know it is.” She shrugged at Dolokhov. “What do you say?”

Dolokhov studied her, amused. “Yes.”

Clara began shuffling. She placed the cards down. 

“Place your bets.”

Coins landed on cards, Dolokhov’s included. 

She turned two over from the deck, and Dolokhov sucked in his breath as Clara swept the coins to the side.

She blinked innocently. 

“Bad luck, Officer Dolokhov. Shall you try again?”

He shifted in his chair, eyes narrowed. 

“Yes.”

“Then, again, place your bets.” More rummaging in pockets, more coins on the table. 

Clara turned over her cards, and the men gave a shout. A small smile played about Clara’s mouth. 

“Shall I continue, Officer Dolokhov?”

He leaned forward, fixing her with a stare that sent an alarming thrill of lust down to her toes.

“Continue.”

“Place your bets.”

This time, when she turned over the cards and the men exclaimed even louder at her streak of luck, Dolokhov nodded as if confirming something.

He stood up.

“Countess, may I have a word?”

She feigned astonishment. “Of course, Officer Dolokhov.”

She stood up shakily and took his offered arm, a heady mixture of lust and nervousness running through her veins.

Dolokhov walked them to just outside the doors, a respectable distance away from the buzz of the party but still unseen in the hallway. 

He looked at her, and she lifted her chin, meeting his stare with a lofty expression of her own.

He snorted, annoyed.

“Are you always this superior, or am I simply noticing it now?”

Clara arched an eyebrow: Dolokhov was beginning to recognize it as her way of expressing disapproval.

“I _am_ always this superior, and you are noticing it because I have beat you at cards.” Clara gave him a smug smile. “Again.”

“You are giving yourself far too much credit, Countess. I hardly care whether you win or not.”

“Then you won’t mind me being superior about it.”

He looked at her, shaking his head angrily. “You cheated, just then. You were counting cards.”

“Ah, and now we get to it.”

She stepped forward.

“How did you know I was counting cards?”

“Countess, please. Don’t insult us both. The answer is: I know how to count them as well, correct? Is that not what you want me to say?”

“And how did you like being on the other side?”

Dolokhov laughed, looking at her in disbelief.

“Is this how it is to be, always a lecture by way of a lesson?"

“No, it is only because you have lessons to learn.”

Dolokhov shook his head, frustrated.

“Whatever you may have heard about me-“

“That you cheat, you mean.”

“-it is no longer true,” finished Dolokhov, angrily. 

There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other.

Dolokhov faced Clara. “I will admit to it. I made my own luck, as they say.” 

He walked closer.

“I have been called many things. An animal, a cardsharp, a scoundrel, a rogue.” His eyes were flashing.

“Those are all correct.” He pushed his hands through his hair and looked at her.

“But I tell you Clara,” and he had a wild, desperate expression. 

“I have always been a man with nothing to lose.” 

She scoffed.

“Men and their ridiculous ultimatums! You have many things to lose!”

Dolokhov laughed, bitterly. 

“No,” cried Clara. “It is true! You are a man in the prime of life! Your friends, Pierre, and Natasha!" She hesitated, but then said, "Your mother, and your sister!”

“Yes,” breathed Dolokhov. “They love me, because they must.” His voice was deadly quiet. “And I love them wholly in return.”

Clara's heart was beating madly.

He came closer, touching her face gently. “But there is no one else who I am tied to.”

Clara shook her head, fractionally.

“Clara,” he said again, and she closed her eyes, leaning into him.

His mustache brushed against her other cheek, his lips warm and soft, teasing, his hands skimming the top edges of her gown.

“Fedya,” Clara said, into his chest, helplessly, the lust in her body taking over.

“We must control ourselves,” she said, her voice low, pressing kisses to the bare skin of his chest, relishing the feel of him, hot to the touch. 

“Clara, Clara, do you not understand?” he whispered, feverishly against her skin. 

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her close. She could feel the length of him, shocking and vital, through the material of her dress. He kissed her again, and she reached her hands up into his hair, gripping the soft strands in her fingers, pulling at him, lost in the feel of him. 

“You have long since broken all of my control,” he said roughly, against her mouth, rubbing himself slowly, tantalizingly against her.

She gasped and echoed him, earning her a groan. There was nothing but Dolokhov: His tongue in her mouth, the rough stubble on his cheek, the hard muscle of his chest underneath her hands. 

A sudden yell pierced the air, loud and desperate, shocking them apart; she stumbled on the hem of her dress, he grabbed her, steadying her.  
There was an explosion of voices raised in the other room.  
She smoothed and straightened her dress, Dolokhov running his hands through his disheveled hair and fixing his jacket as they rushed into the parlour, taking in the scene before them. The room was in chaos; men and women shouting at full volume to each other.

“Fedya! Clara!” it was Pierre, fighting his way through the anguished guests towards them. 

“What on earth has happened, Petrushka?” Dolokhov stared at him, gesturing to the room around them. 

Pierre’s face was ashen. “It’s Napoleon. He’s escaped Elba, and he’s in Paris.” He looked at Dolokhov. “And the Russian Imperial Army is back at war.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Napoleon's escape puts everything in a very different light, especially for Dolokhov.

Dolokhov received the news with little surprise; he had been expecting it. Pierre turned again and left to find Natasha, and Dolokhov felt a familiar sense of calm set in. It was in contrast to the slight hysteria pervading the rest of the room. 

He was used to war. Had he not spent the last decade of his life either training to fight or facing actual battle? The fact that he must return to it after a two year absence, well. There was a strange comfort in the predictability of his place in the world. This is what he knew: this was his life.

He felt a slight pressure on his arm, and looked down to see Clara, studying him with a sharp expression. 

“I suppose, if Napoleon is in Paris, you will be marching to meet him somewhere. When do you think the army will be sent?”

He had not expected tears or hysterics from her, and he was not disappointed: she was pale, but there was a determined set to her features.  
Their argument over cards, their heated exchange and desperate embrace; all of that seemed long ago.

He gave her a small smile. “I don’t know for certain, but we will be training immediately. It all depends on Napoleon.”

She nodded her head in her confident way, her eyes fierce on his.

“He will not win.”

Dolokhov could have kissed her, right then, in full view of the room, etiquette and station be damned. 

Mikhailoff was coming towards them, his own officer’s uniform now lending him a sense of gravitas. 

“Dolokhov!” They embraced, brothers in arms once again.

“Countess,” Mikhailoff bowed. “I came to collect this dashing man from your company.” He turned to Dolokhov. “There are a few of us over there with Captain Petrov.”

The implication was clear: the officers were already separate, already inhabiting a world of their own. 

“Besides,” Mikhailoff winked, “you don’t want to have anything to do with this one! Haven’t you heard, Countess? He’s a complete scoundrel.”

Dolokhov smiled, and took Clara’s offered hand, bowing low. “Good evening, Countess.” 

Her eyes, for the first time this evening, were filled with sadness. He turned her hand, kissing its palm, saw her close her eyes for a brief moment. His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest. 

He stood up straight, and gave her a final nod. 

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

He turned and followed Mikhailoff through the crowd, the guests moving aside, a sense of death and destiny already clinging to the two men as they passed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month of waiting for war. Clara struggles with her own feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a huge fan of time miraculously jumping forward in stories, but I had always planned for Dolokhov to be away for military training, which forces Clara to examine just how far deep in she is. This was a good point to force them apart, because otherwise it would be just Clara whiling away time and Dolokhov's training. (Which would be sexy, but not that fun to read about. Or would it?) Lol.
> 
> Hopefully I've done a believable job of the two of them getting past the point of no return. Dolokhov, being the "jump-in-with-both-feet" type of man he is, is falling far faster, but I want to show that Clara isn't untouched either.

The air was brisk and cold, and frost sparkled in the morning sunlight, but there was only the odd patch of snow breaking up the brown and green countryside. Green blades pushing through the earth promised snowdrops: the sky above Clara as she walked was blue.

The gravel path crunched under her boots as she breathed in, filling her lungs with the biting spring air. Her cheeks were red, and her nose was cold, but she had wanted fresh air desperately.

It had been a month since Napoleon had been declared an outlaw at the Congress of Vienna, a month since Tsar Alexander had promised the support of 150, 000 Russian troops. War was inevitable, the coalition forces were gathering, but there was no action. It felt as if the whole of Europe was waiting, with bated breath, for Napoleon to decide. Attack, or defend?

It had been a month of more drawing rooms and parlours, card games and gossip. Clara hated it, she hated waiting. 

She longed to be somewhere, anywhere else. She wished, not for the first time, that women could fight in the infantry. Far easier, she reflected, to be able to put this abundance of nervous energy into action, than to somehow siphon it all into mixing sugar into teacups.

She had no reason to stay in St. Petersburg. She had only returned in the first place to visit the distant relatives of her late husband, and that particular duty had been fulfilled months ago. 

The Russian army had left immediately for their training at Moscow headquarters; she had not seen Dolokhov since the fateful night that the news reached them of Napoleon’s re-assumption of the French throne. 

A month. There had been no word of him, yet every day, Clara went over and over every shared glance, every word, every kiss. His passion, his open way of showing how he felt, moment-to-moment, his intense focus that he had given entirely to her: she could no longer lie to herself. Dolokhov was a much different man than she expected.

It was ridiculous – she barely knew him. Their time together consisted equally of arguments and stolen passion. They had only one real conversation between them, only glimpses into each other’s pasts. He was merely an officer, what could possibly happen?

And yet.

Clara sighed in frustration, her breath puffing into the chill air. She heard footsteps far behind her; she turned back to see Marya walking quickly along the path. Marya waved her arm.

“Clara! I have caught you!”

Clara walked back towards her, smiling. 

“I haven’t got very far. I’m sorry I was not at breakfast: I needed air.”

She saw, as she got closer, that Marya was smiling.

“I have news.”

Clara’s heart stopped. “Of war?”

Marya smiled wider. “Of Officer Dolokhov.”

Her heart resumed operations, picking up speed.

“What is it?” 

“He and the other officers are to be at the Mikhailoff ball in three nights. They are traveling back from Moscow – Lady Orlov met them on the road, and sent word. Count Mikhailoff wants to send his son off to war in style, and Dolokhov is part of his regiment.”

Clara stared at her friend, wide-eyed, unable to focus on a single thought from the many racing through her head.

Marya laughed. “I don’t often see you speechless. Come, I shall walk with you. Let us enjoy the air together.”

She linked her arm through Clara’s, and the two women set off, Clara relishing every breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War! It's coming. Napoleon at Waterloo was of course fought against England and Prussia (Germany,) but Russia was part of the Coalition in other places in Europe, and did indeed send over 167,000 men.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright here's my gamble and I hope it paid off. Lol. I've been careful to mention in almost every chapter Dolokhov's POV towards Clara: he starts with viewing her as just a (challenging) sexual conquest. Then he realizes she intrigues him, and then he starts getting angsty about it, and now he's pretty much done in. 
> 
> I really hope his point of view is believable.

Dolokhov was well acquainted with dinners and balls celebrating officers. Emotions ran high on the eve before the regiment left for battle, and he reveled in it. 

Impending war: experience had taught him, over and over, that it meant women were ready and willing, that gentlemen were more eager to part with their money. 

Risk in the air bred risky behaviour, and he knew tonight would be a veritable playground of lost inhibitions – one that he had visited many times before.

What he was unfamiliar with, was the desire to see only one person in particular. During the past month, thoughts of Clara had consumed him: he no longer denied himself the truth. In the weeks since he had first met her at that dinner, he had desired and pursued her, careful to admit only lust was involved. 

He knew now his feelings went deeper than that, but he couldn’t trust himself to think beyond his immediate need to see her. He knew she would never accept a life with him, but tonight, on the eve before he left for war, he must see her. He must see her eyes, her face. He must make her smile.

The evening was cold and clear. The guests were gathering in the great dining hall of the Mikhailoff estate for dinner before the dancing began.

As soon as he entered the room with the other officers, his eyes sought out Clara’s tall figure and dark curls. He saw her immediately: she was standing and laughing with Lady Orlov.  
He had forgotten how beautiful she was, how the elegant features of her face hid the clear determination he knew was beneath. He had pictured her many times over the past four weeks: the reality of her was breathtaking.

He moved towards her, the month between their last encounter suddenly overwhelming him. She looked up, seeing him. He smiled at her, and her eyes, those beautiful, cool eyes, were looking at him in delight. 

Whatever they were to each other, he had not expected to see such happiness in her expression. He wished desperately that they were alone; he wanted nothing more in the world than to pull her into his arms.

“Dinner is served!” came the grave proclamation from the corner of the room, and the guests moved en masse to the long table, discovering their place cards at the seats.

Dolokhov found Clara’s first, her title written in elegant hand, before realizing with a start that the card to her left bore his own name.

She came and stood beside him, and they couldn’t speak as Count Mikhailoff greeted the guests and launched into a patriotic speech.

Dolokhov glanced at Clara, and she looked back at him, and Mikhailoff’s toast to the Tsar was completely lost as he drank her in, longing to touch her but knowing he could not.

“Hurrah!” came the resounding cheer, and there was a great scraping of chairs as everyone was seated. 

“Are you chaps ready for what’s to come?” said Sir Kovenchki, across from Dolokhov once again.

Dolokhov leaned back, smugly. “I am always ready.”

There was chuckling around them, and Lady Orlov said, “I usually hear such shocking tales from the regiment while in Moscow, Officer Dolokhov, and you are almost always behind them. And yet this time I heard nothing!”

Dolokhov was barely listening; Clara’s gloved hand had brushed across his wrist under the table. He looked over at her, but she was staring straight ahead, listening to the conversation.

He smiled easily. “Perhaps it is because this time, I have done things too shocking to repeat.” This comment was met with appreciative laughter.

He moved his own hand to hers, stroking his fingers on top of her glove, and he felt her turn her hand over, so his fingers were stroking her palm.

“I think that is more likely the case,” chortled Sir Kovenchki. “It was most unusual not to hear of any of your exploits!”

Dolokhov raised his eyebrows, at the same time that he felt Clara shift her hand to the top of his thigh. He shifted in his chair, blood running straight to his groin.

Princess Anna giggled. “There are rumours, Officer Dolokhov, that you kept mostly to yourself in Moscow.”

Dolokhov felt Clara’s hand stroke slowly, languidly, up his thigh. She turned and looked right at him, her hand cupping him, as she said, 

“You don’t expect us to believe that of the wild Dolokhov, do you?”

He let out a long breath, his desire ratcheting up as she began stroking up and down the length of his shaft. He pretended to look thoughtful, his focus pulled to the beautiful, firm touch of Clara’s hand.

He cleared his throat, looking at her. “I don’t expect you to believe it.”

Lady Orlov gave a tiny laugh. “Goodness, what is responsible for this, Dolokhov? Is it war? I suppose the threat of battle would quiet even your spirits.”

With this statement, the table around them dissolved into eager discussion of the upcoming war, and Dolokhov took the opportunity to bend his head to Clara’s, and whisper roughly to her as her hand continued to work.

“I have been thinking of you every day since I left.”

She turned her chin slightly towards him. He could feel her breath on his neck. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

He smiled, and he brought his hand to her wrist, stopping her movement. Bringing his lips right to her ear, he said,

“It means that I have had quite a bit of time to think of my own lesson to teach you.”

He caught her earlobe gently with his teeth, feeling her breath hitch. 

“Which lesson is that?”

He pressed a kiss, unseen and quick, gently to her jaw, flicking his tongue against her skin. 

“I am going to teach you what fire does to ice, and I’m going to melt that cool reserve of yours once and for all.”

He saw her chest rise and fall with a rapid breath. 

“But first,” he whispered, as she finally gave in, unable to stop her body turning towards him,

“First, you are going to dance with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as their fun under the table - I figure Clara shares the same passionate streak as Dolokhov. They're a good match, in more than just verbal sparring. :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov leads Clara through the waltz.

Clara walked towards the ballroom on Dolokhov’s arm, physical craving and emotional turmoil coursing through her. She would not let herself think of the complicated web they had woven around themselves: she would not notice the faces watching them as they moved arm in arm. There was simply tonight, and the two of them.

They had walked the length of the room, the entrance to the grand ballroom appearing before them, the music growing loud.

Dolokhov bowed formally before her, his smile playful as he pressed his lips, once again, to her glove. 

“Clara,” he said, and it was thrilling to hear her name on his lips, thrilling to have him still bowed, his expression fierce and hopeful, all at once, and all for her,

“May I have the honour of dancing with you?”

Her heart was in her throat; she could only nod. 

He led her into the vast ballroom. The mirrored walls reflected the guests; replaying themselves dancing into infinity. The glow of candles threw the faces of everyone present into a soft, golden light. Dolokhov brought them to the middle of the room and stood her facing him, waiting for the dance to begin.

He placed a hand on her upper back, gently but firmly bringing them together. She brought up her hand into his waiting one, her other resting on the top of his shoulder. He was looking at her with such intent, his eyes betraying such depth of emotion, that she didn’t think it was possible to move.

Yet the music swelled to a start, and move they did, as Dolokhov swept them both smoothly and expertly into the waltz.

His eyes didn’t leave hers as he lead them gracefully across the floor, spinning them gently in tune, circling them effortlessly through the dance. Clara felt completely safe and light his steady arms; he moved with control and grace, and with a small amount of spirit that didn’t surprise her. 

Neither of them said a word: there was no need. The language he spoke most fluently, Clara was learning, was with those sparkling eyes of his; the unfiltered joy and adoration in them right now making her more breathless than the dancing. 

Her hand moved, slowly and deliberately, to the front of his chest. His own traveled farther down her back, pulling them closer. He spun them a touch faster, her heart racing, their bodies pressed against one another. To her great surprise, he closed his eyes for just a moment, and Clara was aware of every single sensation, filtered through the narrowing of the room around just the two of them: his hand on her back, his solid chest underneath her hand, her own breathless dizziness. 

The music stopped, the assembled dancers whirling to a halt, Dolokhov sweeping her backwards, weightless in his arms. He tilted her almost to the floor, his head bent above her chest, and she had the thrilling sensation of seeing the paintings on the ceiling, soaring above her, before he brought her easily back up against his body, breathing hard. The sound of the dancers' applause seemed suddenly deafening. 

It was the easiest thing Clara had ever done: she put her hand in Dolokhov’s offered one and he led her through the crowd, never letting go, glancing back once and giving her a dazzling smile over his shoulder. 

Out the ballroom doors, down a hallway, Clara’s head spinning with exhilaration and desire as he pulled them both, laughing and breathless, into an alcove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, dancing was _the_ thing, right? I loved the idea of Dolokhov dancing with Clara - this is one of the chapters I wrote near the beginning. I wanted to write it almost entirely without dialogue: I wanted their feelings to come across entirely through their senses as they danced - because that's how it would have felt.
> 
> I loved this chapter - it's one of my favourites. I wanted Clara to feel swept off her feet, because you just _know_ Dolokhov could make you fall in love with him during the waltz. :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eve before he leaves for war, Dolokhov finally gets to teach Clara a lesson of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeep it's time for some fun in the alcove. (It's what they're there for, right?)

Dolokhov pressed her against the wall, covering his body with hers. The reality of him, hard against her thigh through the thin material of her dress was a shocking, heady dose of pleasure. She had never been this aroused before, had never felt what she was feeling now: she barely recognized herself.

She gasped, hardly aware of what she was doing, as she brought up her hands up to the side of his face. He looked down at her, his own chest heaving, before bringing his mouth to hers and softly, gently kissing her. 

He stroked his tongue against hers, slowly, his hips matching each movement, pressing himself into her core, each time deliberately slow. Heat pooled deep inside her body, warm at first, then, with each press of his length against her, hotter and hotter.

She was so thoroughly lost in him, so completely gone, that when he drew back, it was a shock, and she whimpered, her hands on his chest grabbing onto his shirt.

He smiled, wickedly, his hips still moving, before bringing his hands to hers and taking her gently by the wrists, raising her hands higher, each thrust of his hips delivering another bolt of pleasure, until he trapped her hands above her head.

He began to move against her again, and she couldn’t think straight. Still holding her hands trapped with one hand, he moved the other one slowly down the side of her cheek, down the side of her dress, brushing across the low fabric of her neckline. Clara swallowed, pushing her chest into his hand, helpless.

He chuckled, soft and low, his thumb moving back and forth across her skin, ignoring the stiff nipples peaked just below.

“Please,” she begged him, not knowing what she was begging for, her pulse becoming an ache throughout her body.

He looked into her eyes, his pupils wide, a knowing smile on his face, before pushing the fabric down deftly and brushing his thumb lower, then bending his head to her breast, and capturing a nipple gently in his teeth. He flicked his tongue, and she gasped. 

He moved back up to her neck, skillful, hot laves of his tongue. One hand was still holding her wrists, the other traveling down the front of her dress, between her legs, and stroking her through the fabric with light, teasing touches.

She squirmed, desperate, pushing her hips forward, pushing herself into his hand, that pulsing pressure building, threatening to take over-

“Not yet,” he said, his voice pure gravel. He moved his hand away, and Clara glared at him. 

“What did I say about melting that cool reserve?” he said, his hand resting on her hip. He reached down to her thigh and began caressing her, bunching up the fabric of her dress, until he let go and it fell back down, his hand underneath her dress, underneath her slip, and cupped his hand against her core. He sucked in his own breath at how wet she was, and pushed aside her underwear, pressing his fingers to her. 

She let out a cry, and bucked against his hand, hard, and he nodded, his eyes watching her with pleasure.

“That’s better,” he said, and his fingers found her clit, pressing just around it, then stroking it gently in small, circular motions. 

She gasped, and gasped again, and Dolokhov kept going, his pace leisurely, working her with deliberate, even pressure.

Clara was rapidly losing her grip on reality; she had never even known it was possible to feel what she was feeling. Pleasure was running through her with each press of his fingers: it felt as if the very tip of entire body was centered at the mercy of his touch. She was soaking wet, she was barely aware that Dolokhov was even there, until she felt him slide a finger inside her.

She tried to gasp, but was so overcome it was more like choking, and Dolokhov was there, releasing her hands, and she dropped them to his neck, braced between him and the wall, unable to hold herself up.

He was kissing her neck, loving, slow pulls of his mouth, while his finger inside her kept going, a steady pace, matching his thumb massaging her clit. A second finger joined the first, pushing into her and driving her wild.

The pleasure was unbearable, it was building again, it was all over her body, it was quicksilver in her veins.

“Let go, it’s alright,” Dolokhov whispered, his arm keeping her steady, his pace increasing, faster and faster. 

Clara opened her mouth, panting into his neck. 

She was gripping his shirt in desperation; she lifted her head and let out a strangled moan.

“Yes, let me hear you,” he said, green eyes on hers. Clara was gasping, sobbing in short bursts, her body spiraling into a horrible, wonderful, tightening that scared her as much as she needed it.

“Let go, Clara,” ordered Dolokhov again, and she did, a burst of pleasure so complete and intense that she felt herself collapse, but she had no control. She was weightless, she closed her eyes, her scream captured by his mouth on hers, her hands fisted into the front of his clothes, her hips bucking down on his fingers. She opened her eyes, Dolokhov holding her up, riding it out with her, his eyes never leaving hers. 

She gave a final shiver and her body gave out, but he had her; he let her relax into his body, his arms around her, supporting her weight. Her legs were shaking. He brought his hand away from her and smiled, his eyes crinkling. 

She laughed, weakly. 

“Jesus bloody Christ,” she swore in English, an echo of her Irish past escaping her.

He grinned, and although she knew he did not understand her words, he certainly understood the meaning. She leaned her head against the wall, letting her breathing calm, loosening her grip on his uniform. She felt as if she never wanted to leave his arms.

A helplessness overtook her, then; the realization that Fedya was leaving tomorrow, and he would be fighting in a war. This man would be facing musket balls and blades, this warm chest beneath her hands, nothing but skin and bone against cannon fire and bayonets.

She looked at him, shaking her head. He was looking at her with such a soft expression in his eyes that she wanted to cry. 

But she wouldn’t. She stroked her fingers through his hair, resting her fingers on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and turned his mouth to kiss her hand. 

She could hear the music from the ballroom, the laughter and raised voices of hundreds of people. 

Their time had ended: they had made no declarations, no promises. Clara did not even know what they were to each other. They barely knew each other, and yet she could not stand the thought of letting Fedya go.

“You are thinking of how much you will miss me,” he teased, gently.

She laughed, tears threatening. 

She looked at him. “You must come back,” she ordered, straightening her shoulders, placing her hand above his heart.

He smiled at that, a confident set to his features once again.

“I have never failed to.”

Voices were in the hallway; the ball and guests beckoned. Footsteps in the hallway, and Mikhailoff's jovial cry, "Dolokhov! Where are you, man?" Clara knew it was over; these were their last moments alone together.

Clara breathed in. “I cannot say it, I will not say good bye.”

“Then let me, as I am used to it.” 

His eyes were searching hers, moving over her face.

“Goodbye.”

His other arm was still around her, and he pulled her close, giving her hair a fierce kiss. “Goodbye," he whispered again, into her curls. "Goodbye, my darling Clara.”

Then he released her, and was walking out of the alcove. Clara heard Mikhailoff right there, and laughter from the two men. "Dolokhov! Where the devil have you been, I'm losing all my money at the table!" Another giggling couple passed by outside the alcove, the noise of the party was pressing in on her, and she was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh my god I am still so nervous about smut and it's historical, period-piece smut! I was agonizing over this: I didn't want them to have actual sex, because they're not emotionally there yet and Clara is a Countess aware of her position, etc, so it's a bit too full-on for them. 
> 
> Then I was all flustered about the language. I didn't want to be all, "and he watered her flower" or whatever awful euphemism would be considered appropriate for the time. So the language is pretty modern. 
> 
> But! I believe that the lust between these two has been building for so long that it had to reach some kind of peak, and I wanted it to happen just before he leaves for war. And we know that even if Dolokhov has no doubt been around this particular block, Clara has not. 
> 
> I hope it works. 
> 
> And for the record, I was blushing furiously while writing this. The whole time! But mostly, surprisingly, at his whispered endearment at the end. *sigh*


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov at war.

“What I wouldn’t give,” said Mikhailoff into the twilight sky, “to feel the touch of a woman.”

This was met with smiles around the fire that they were gathered around, and a few words of agreement, but the men were overwhelmingly tired. Their column of troops had met up with General Wrede’s Bavarian Corps, and were heading west through Belgium. They had been marching for weeks.

The past month had been filled with news of Prussian defeats across France and Belgium. Spirits were low. Napoleon, it seemed, could not be stopped.

The good weather meant they were able to meet the Prussian forces earlier than expected and lend some badly needed support.  
They hoped, rather than believed, it would help.

Ney, the French commander, had advanced his men much farther into Belgium than should be allowed, and tomorrow, after months of bleak, never ending marching, the Russian regiment were to face the French. Few of the men looked into the distance at the scattered fires of the French encampment. Few men wished to see a reminder of what they faced in mere hours’ time.

Dolokhov’s thoughts strayed, as they continuously did, to Clara. The warm parlours and grand parties seemed a long time ago. It was hard to reconcile his memories of her during the cold Russian winter with the early summer grass and cloudless skies, with the endless marching and rough living that his life had become.

He had not seen her for months. Yet he remembered every detail very clearly; their last moments together replaying in his memory on a daily basis. Watching her come undone in his arms. The look in her eyes when he said goodbye – he had not imagined the emotion there, had he?

General Stepanov was coming towards them out of the shadows, and the men stood up. 

“Are none of you sleeping tonight, then?”

The men remained silent, stationary.

Stepanov nodded, the firelight flickering on his face.

“Yes, I understand. Rest if you can. We taste victory tomorrow.”

He left again, moving on to another fire, to no doubt deliver the same hollow message. Victory was far from assured. The French kept advancing, and there was no way to tell anymore whether or not the Russian and Bavarian troops could turn the tide. 

Yet they must try.

 

XXXXX

 

“I am ready, I am ready,” chanted Petrekoff beside him, looking eager and younger than Dolokhov had ever seen him.

His own pulse was echoing the phrase: I am ready.

Mikhailoff was on his other side, and suddenly gripped his shoulder.

“Can we do it, Dolokhov? Can Napoleon be beat, or is it true what they say? He is a god?”

Dolokhov shook his head, letting out a soft laugh, his breath curling in tendrils in the early morning air.

“There are no gods in war, Mikhailoff. There is only us, and them.” He nodded towards the distant line of the French army advancing towards them.

He reached across and kissed Mikhailoff on the cheek. “And there is everyone we fight for. There is Russia. Yes?”

Mikhailoff smiled, his teeth white against the smudges of dirt on his face. “Yes.”

The line of blue moved ever closer in the morning mist.

Time stopped: Dolokhov heard the absurd sound of a songbird calling into the stillness.

“CHARGE!” came the cry, the order that he had heard many times before, the word that sent a thrill through him, teasing fate, every time.

His blood was roaring in his ears, the sound of the battle cry deafening, the adrenaline pushing him forward. The line of blue materialized, the details resolving into bodies of men and the outline of weapons, before dissolving again into a blur of movement all around him as the two armies broke into each other.

He knew this feeling, this familiar loss of every other thought; the world and its problems narrowing into one manageable detail, one single action in combat, one second at a time.

Mikhailoff was on his left, thrusting his bayonet forward, then kneeling down and reloading his musket. Dolokhov moved in front of him, slicing into an oncoming body, covering Mikhailoff for the precious half-minute needed to reload. 

They heard the blast of a cannon; saw bodies fall, he did not know whether they were Russian or French, only knew that a foreign uniform could be seen coming forwards through the smoke. 

One second at a time, that was all this was.

 _One:_ He knelt, the cold wet ground seeping into the knee of his uniform.

 _Two:_ he squinted, sweat in his eyes blurring his vision, stinging.

 _Three:_ he fired, his musket kicking back against his shoulder, the body coming towards him collapsing to the ground.

Back up again, no time to reload; Petrekoff on his right, clutching his shoulder and standing, screaming. 

Another soldier, the bloody blade of a bayonet swinging towards him, the tip catching his temple, a step backwards to regain his feet and a thrust forward of his own.

Another blast of cannon fire; he could no longer see Mikhailoff. He blinked away sweat, or was it blood? It hardly mattered; another body fell at the end of his blade. 

_One:_ a flash of pain, a blade catching his forearm.

 _Two:_ a quick turn to his right, a savage cut of his own.

 _Three:_ another man hitting the ground with a yell, another relentless decision of fate.

A thin screaming reached his ears: Petrekoff was still frozen to the spot, a statue of misery.

“Petrekoff!” he roared, although he could not be heard. 

“For God’s sake, get down!” 

Petrekoff was looking at nothing, a wild, broken expression on his face, tears streaming down the dirt on his cheeks.

A French soldier was advancing with a musket, and Petrekoff was mouthing wordlessly, unmoving. Dolokhov threw himself sideways, pushing Petrekoff down as the sound of the shot reached him.

 _One:_ his first thought was that of incredulity at the lack of pain. He had absorbed the hit in his side, felt the impact, felt the sudden, deep, invasion of a foreign object into his body. That he was still moving, bayonet still in the air, amused him. 

_Two:_ his lungs gave out in a sudden burst of agony, and it was almost comical, then, how fast he went to his knees, the men around him still rushing past, the bodies beside him buried in the mud. He took another breath, but was unable to do so: he heard a horrendous, wet gasping and realized it was him. He crawled forward. He must see his mother, he must let her know-

He fell sideways, his fingers clenching the dirt, willing himself to move, why was he not moving?

 _Three:_ his last thought, before the blackness took him, was of Clara's smile, her hazel eyes looking up at him in delight, as he held her in his arms, spinning on the dance floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some pretty severe liberties with geography and history, here. Lol!
> 
> The Russian army sent 160,000 men in support to fight Napoleon, but not a lot of them saw any action. Waterloo happened faster than anticipated, so Russian troops weren't really there yet. 
> 
> I've placed Dolokhov in an imaginary regiment that joined up with a real Bavarian one, and I'm putting them in an imaginary battle mid-June, a few days before Napoleon's legendary defeat. There were real battles that the Prussian forces lost leading up to Waterloo, and I'm pretending this is one of them. 
> 
> I really, really wanted to show Dolokhov at war. He's a soldier, through and through - it's such a huge part of his identity. I wanted to have him at war, though, with more to lose - the possibility of love changing his views on things. This chapter was the beginning of this entire story. :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara suffers through teatime while Dolokhov suffers through his injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some content warning here for treatment of a wound without anesthetic. It's not pleasant, but I've tried to keep the really graphic details out. I'm not giving a detailed account of every moment - it's not a surgical summary.  
> However, you get a pretty good idea of what's going on, and Dolokhov isn't having a good time of things.
> 
> He's tough, though. :)

Clara accepted the offered teacup with a nod of thanks, placing it in front of her on the spotless linen.

“I am so glad this horrendous war business will be behind us soon,” Lady Panavry said, laughing. “Then we can return to normal.”

The women laughed softly in the afternoon sun.

“Napoleon is no threat,” trilled Lady Orlov. “All this silliness.”

Clara ground her teeth, and focused on stirring in sugar.

Lady Orlov sighed. “I think perhaps it would be a good idea not to have any more war. I am getting quite tired of it all.”

Clara set down her spoon. 

“Indeed,” she said, her clear voice firm. “I can only imagine how tired the soldiers are, without teatime to sustain them.”

The ladies stopped murmuring and stared at her.

“In fact, I would daresay that many of them, operating without sleep and food and safety for weeks on end, are even exhausted.”

A few ladies whispered, there were glances exchanged across the table. Clara arched her eyebrow and continued.

“Let us hope that they are not feeling as tired as you, Lady Orlov, or we may just be in for more _silliness_ before this round is even over.”

Clara stood, and left the room, taking deep breaths in the hallway and ignoring a passing servant with a tray of food. 

She must not think of Dolokhov, as she did every day. She must not imagine him tired, or in combat, or, in her worst nightmares, injured. 

She must not hope that he thought of her as often as she thought of him.

Clara couldn’t stand it. She hoped, wherever he was, that he was alright.

 

XXXXX

 

A white-hot bolt of lightning, sharp and complete, in the side of his body. Dolokhov wrenched his eyes open, his body jumping, straining. The lightning was relentless, a rain of agonizing, fiery bursts, over and over again.

It was wholly unbearable, what fool was responsible for this hell? He yelled, and he became aware, then, of lying down, of being unable to move his arms and legs, of figures holding him down. A set of hands shoved a stick into his mouth, and he bit down without thinking.

The pain kept him lucid: it was torturous. Another searing dig into his flesh; he convulsed again. 

“Dolokhov!” he heard his name, and Mikhailoff’s brown eyes, barely recognizable in a battered and filthy face, came into view.

“Fedya!” Mikhailoff’s arm was across his chest, the expression on his face full of sympathy. 

“I know, my God man, it must feel like the devil itself, but they must do it!”

Another jolt of pain – why wouldn’t they _stop_ – and he roared into the wood. He heard something hard hit tin.

A brief respite as another pair of eyes joined Mikhailoff’s. 

“Officer Dolokhov. Your left side was hit by a musket ball. There are pieces of your uniform and bone fragments deep in the wound. They have to come out if you are to have a chance at survival.” He spoke this last with an air of straightforward finality.

Dolokhov understood, now, what the searing, agonizing pulls in his side meant. 

He felt the sweat streaming from the tips of his hair, dripping into his ears, heard the cries and moans of the men around him. He knew, vaguely, that there must be a battle still raging somewhere, but that he was no longer a part of it: he was fighting a different one now.

He gave a nod, focusing on the tented fabric far above him. 

_“A chance at survival.”_

_Clara._

He knew he would have given his last breath to see her, touch her, again. 

Another horrific dig into his wound sent pain rocketing through his torso before blazing into his spine; his body jerked again.

“Is there nothing we can give the man?” cried Mikhailoff, sounding close to tears.

Dolokhov knew the answer, knew it before the surgeon shook his head, and braced himself. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his body slammed on the table again, before blessed unconsciousness took over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, musket ball wounds! Based on what I read, your survival would have been largely down to chance, and it was mostly due to luck and whether you beat infection or not.  
> The poor men who endured this! Yikes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov continues to fight a very different battle; Clara receives news.

Light was piercing through the dark; Dolokhov felt his eyelids squeeze tightly in response, unwilling to wake.

The light persisted, coming closer, stabilizing around him. 

Dolokhov’s fingers moved against the grimy sheets, weakly.

Quiet voices skirted around the edge of his understanding. The light! It would not go away.

He opened his eyes, squinting against that intolerable light, only to see a vague impression of shadows. It was easier to look to the other side, away from the light. Darker, and better. His vision adjusted, and he made out a disembodied hand, peeling off the skin of his left side.

No. Not his skin. A bandage. The hand floated away from the bandage, dissolving into the darkness.

The pain rushed into him, as if it had been waiting, an animal to pounce and devour. It crept up steadily from his side, across his stomach, through his ribs, into his lungs; eating him from the inside out.

Memory shot through him at the same time as the pain, and his fingers twisted in the sheets.

He was overcome with a sudden, desperate need for water, at the same time that he became aware of someone sitting by his head, had been talking steadily this whole time.

“Dolokhov, my God, I am glad to see you awake.” The words resolved into understanding. 

Dolokhov raised his eyes and focused on Mikhailoff. 

“The battle,” he said, the words coming out as unintelligible sounds.

Frustrated, Dolokhov tried again, enunciating with effort.

“Napoleon.”

Mikhailoff grinned, his face elated even in shadow. “Is in retreat. Prussia and England! They taught him a lesson.”

Dolkohov closed his eyes as Mikhailoff continued.

“He went back to Paris and it does not bode well for him.”

As Dolokhov absorbed this news, the pain continued to climb higher; racing white-hot through his limbs. He was aware that both himself and the pallet were soaked with sweat.

He motioned weakly to the large, blood-stained bandage on his torso with gritted teeth.

Mikhailoff’s smile fell. “That musket ball caught your lower rib. The doctor said you were in luck that it was so low, and it was not too close-range, thank God.”

Dolokhov attempted a smile at this, but it was merely a baring of his teeth.

“You are bloody fearless, man, jumping in front of Petrekoff like that. A few of us saw it. The bastard didn’t deserve it, but you saved him.”

Dolokhov’s body was on fire. Mikhailoff’s words were beginning to loosen back into nonsense.

“We are to be sent home, as soon as we can be moved.”

The word penetrated through the burning taking over his senses.

 _Home._ He must let Pierre know to send money to his mother.

“Letter!” he gasped. “Dictate.” The room was blurring.

Mikhailoff looked worried. “Of – of course.” He stood up and left, presumably in search of paper and ink. Dolokhov barely cared. The fire was everywhere. 

Mikhailoff returned, this time with another man. The doctor, thought Dolokhov. He was shivering now, the minute spasms making his injury throb, but he could not make himself stop.

“He is awake, but he is suffering. What is happening?”

Dolokhov watched the doctor as he answered; he must pay attention.

“He is fighting infection, no doubt. Happens all the time.” 

_Focus. Pierre must receive instructions._

“Will he be alright?”

The doctor shrugged, sighing. “Perhaps. I will try and bring his fever down.”

_Clara._

And he must live. 

 

XXXXX

 

 _“They say I am fortunate, although the fire that holds me in its grip says otherwise.”_

Pierre looked up from the letter as he read aloud, and saw Natasha and Clara’s faces urging him to continue.

_“This is the second musket ball I am to keep in my body as a souvenir. I hope to God there isn’t a third, as it’s an even rougher business than the first.”_

This caused them all to smile; Pierre especially, with a sad look in his eyes.

_“I ask you to ensure my enclosed Captain’s commission reaches my mother and sister, and I will see you when I am back in Petersburg. Give my best to Natasha, and-“_

“And what, Pierre? What is it?” Natasha looked ready to shake him.

Pierre looked at Clara, who was looking right back at him, and read out,

_“And if you see her, tell the Countess Palecekev that I think of our lessons daily, and of little else.”_

Clara’s heart was pounding. 

Natasha laughed and looked at Clara.

“Goodness, whatever does that mean?”

Clara shook her head, her body warm. “It is a silly joke between friends.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows at this, as Pierre continued. 

“There’s a post script here from Mikhailoff: 

_‘I do not wish to cause alarm, but as I write, Dolokhov is not well. His injury has given way to infectious fever, and he is not often lucid. I received this dictation in pieces. He insisted I do not speak of this. Still, you must prepare yourselves.’”_

Clara dropped her head into her hands.

_“I will leave you with a last word: during a clear moment, when I told Dolokhov that he had been made Captain, he said, “of course I have,” and this glimpse of our friend gives me hope.  
By the time this reaches you, I hope we have begun our journey home, with Dolokhov by my side, God willing.”_

There was silence in the room as the three friends sat, lost in thought, each tick of the grand clock in the corner a beat of the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put Dolokhov in battle mid-June, just a few days before Waterloo, which means by the time he is awake and talking to Mikhailoff here, Napoleon would indeed be in retreat back to Paris.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are given a look at Clara's thoughts, and we learn something important about her as well.

Clara could feel Natasha’s eyes on her as she paced back and forth across from her, unaware that she was echoing Dolokhov’s exact movements, months ago.

“My dear Clara.” Natasha’s voice was soft.

“May I venture a guess as to what is bothering you?”

Clara swept to the window, looking out at the sunlit grass before glancing back at her friend.

“I have to tell you something, but let us do it in the fresh air. I cannot be inside, right now.”

 

XXXXX

 

The two women walked the garden path arm in arm, enjoying the early summer air. Clara found she could breathe easier outside; her restless spirits calmed by the breeze and sunshine.

She felt Natasha look over at her.

“It is Dolokhov, isn’t it?”

Clara gave a short nod, staring straight ahead at the path in front of her.

“He will survive, I am sure of it.” Natasha laughed. “If anyone could heal themselves out of sheer will, it would be him.” She squeezed Clara’s arm. “And I think he has something that is calling him home.”

Clara shook her head, a reluctant smile on her face.

“We knew each other two months. And I spent more than half that time lecturing him.” She shot Natasha a sly grin. “And the other half hidden in hallways and alcoves.”

Natasha grinned back. “Ah, the line about the lessons! I see.” She giggled. “Well, it was good for him to hear - you are more than a match for him. Besides which, it seems as if he rather enjoyed it.”

Clara laughed, then sighed.

“I do not know him, really.” She continued walking, thinking. 

“And yet...I feel as if I do. I feel as if he is the most honest man I ever met, in a way. He holds nothing back. He lives so freely, and feels so openly.”

Clara’s steps slowed. “My feelings for him are-“ 

She cleared her throat. “He has made no promises, and it has been months seen we have seen each other. I am not entirely sure what his feelings are, and a fevered line in a letter could mean anything.”

“If you were sure, would you accept him? Despite the difference in your station?”

Clara stopped, and looked at Natasha, squinting in the sun. “There is more to it than that. There is something that has caused my hesitation since the beginning.

"When my husband died, he wrote in his will that his fortune would be passed on to me.”

Natasha nodded.

Clara watched a butterfly float from flower to flower. “With the stipulation that his cousins would control the estate.”

Natasha shaded her eyes with the palm of her hand, studying Clara’s face. “And you are about to tell me that there are restrictions.”

“I am, and there are. The Palecekevs being an old, established name, they are very afraid of scandal. In order for me to keep my inheritance, if I remarry, I must marry very well, or risk losing the fortune.”

Clara’s throat ached; she swallowed.

“I do not care much myself, but it would mean the loss of a comfortable life for my brother and father. It is why I married in the first place – for them. My father is quite ill, and relies on me, and-“

She took a shaking, steadying breath. “And if I allow myself to give into what I am feeling for Fedya, then I would be unable to support my family. Not only is he just an infantryman, but he is also far too scandalous, as far as the Palecekevs are concerned.”

She uttered a short, miserable laugh.

“My husband was a miserly, mean man – and he is still controlling me from the grave. I never wanted to seek out romance, or love, again.”

Natasha leaned forward and embraced Clara in a hug. Clara sighed into her friend’s shoulder.

“It has found me regardless, and I am trapped.”

Clara drew back from their embrace, and Natasha's heart went out to her friend, at the pain etched so clearly on her face.

"And Dolokhov - this man who has come into my life and swept away all of my defenses with such abandon and passion-“

Clara took a wild breath, fighting for control.

"I am not even sure if he is alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposefully kept Clara's conditions on her fortune in the wings. :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov is a grumpy patient, but he's on the mend.

Dolokhov, propped upright against a pillow, watched as the doctor finished replacing the bandage over his wound. 

“It’s looking better, Captain. Not as angry, and it is healing, although you are still far too warm to the touch for my liking.” He looked up at Dolokhov, assessing the wide pupils, waxy skin, and sweaty hair.

“How are you feeling?”

Dolokhov clenched his teeth through a spasm of shaking before replying,

“Like a man who wants to leave this godforsaken medical station.”

The doctor chuckled. “Can you lift your left arm?”

Dolokhov raised his arm, slowly. He could feel the sutures along his side pull. The action made him light-headed and he swore with the effort, the pain lancing through him again. 

The doctor nodded. “That is a good sign.”

“That the stitching held?”

“That you are cursing. Men who have the extra breath to waste and attitude to spare are men who are recovering.”

Dolokhov huffed a careful laugh, shivering again despite the stifling temperature in the tent.

“Let us hope you are right.” He looked at the doctor. “When am I released?”

He received a careful frown in return. “You are not well, Captain.” 

The doctor looked at Dolokhov and noticed his determined expression. 

“I am telling you, you cannot ride.”

Dolokhov was already bracing his hands against the mattress, pushing himself further up. 

“No, I said you cannot ride!” said the doctor with mild alarm.

Dolokhov lay back again, panting slightly.

“I heard you,” he growled. “But I need a bath.”

His throat was parched. “And a damn drink.”

The doctor laughed, and Dolokhov gave a grudging smile through his shaking. 

“Please.”

XXXXX

Dolokhov opened his eyes, a flash of pain had awoken him – he had started to turn on his side in his sleep.

Mikhailoff was watching him with a smile. It was infuriating.

“Is there something I can help you with, or are you determined to ruin my sleep as well as my waking hours with that infernal smiling?”

Mikhailoff laughed.

“Fedya, you are well and truly getting better.”

Dolokhov shifted uncomfortably. His wound felt itchy and hot beneath the bandage, and his stomach was churning. He closed his eyes again, resting his cheek gratefully against the sheets.

“You are a stubborn devil, Dolokhov; I knew you would fight it.”

Dolokhov slowly braced himself on his forearm, relieved to note that his body was no longer on fire. With rapid clarity, the memories of the past few days came barreling back into his mind.

He gave Mikhailoff a sharp look. 

“Did you write Pierre? With the commission for my mother?”

Mikhailoff nodded, watching him, then said, “I wrote the letter as you wanted – with the line for the Countess as well.”

Dolokhov nodded, and merely said,

“Send for the doctor, and let us return to Petersburg. I don’t really care whether he feels I can or not – I have had enough.”

Mikhailoff laughed again, and left swiftly. Dolokhov collapsed back onto the pallet, thoroughly wrung out.

He was not prone to heavy reflection, but Clara had been in his thoughts for months. War, and his injury, had lent another layer of perspective to his feelings. He was a determined man, and he knew exactly where his heart lay in respect to the Countess Palecekev.

XXXXX

Clara was writing a letter to her brother in the morning room of Pierre and Natasha’s estate, looking out the window and lost in thought.

She squinted: she could see flying gravel and the blurred figure of a man on horseback, racing up the entry from afar. 

Her heart plummeted to her stomach; a missive, sure to bear good or ill news.

She was on her feet, out the room and down the hall, and at the doorway in seconds. Pierre was already there, looking up from the paper in his hand, a wide smile on his face.

“Mikhailoff sends word: he is making the journey home, and Dolokhov is with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I get to reunite them! :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and Dolokhov are reunited after months apart.

It was the height of summer; the clear skies and golden fields rich reminders of what Russia had almost lost. The evening sunlight filtered through the windows as the manservant led Clara down the hallway to the Bezukhov’s drawing room.

He bowed, opening the doors and announcing her to the small group of guests waiting inside, and Clara hid her shaking hands in the folds of her dress as she bent into a graceful curtsy before entering the room.

She barely glanced at Pierre and Natasha’s figures, hardly noticed Sir Kovenchki and Lady Orlov, did not register the handful of other guests. Her eyes were drawn to the tall figure of Dolokhov, bowing stiffly before coming forward and kissing her hand.

“Countess.”

Memory had softened him: the reality of him was sharper and larger than she remembered.

She had forgotten how shockingly handsome he was; that smirk always threatening at the corners of his mouth, those green eyes piercing openly into hers. His hair was a bit longer, the ends brushing the edges of his collar.

He had a slightly subdued quality, and he looked pale. He had lost weight; his uniform jacket narrowed more at the waist than she remembered, his cheekbones sharper. Although still in possession of his air of intensity, he was missing that element of inherent danger. 

They stared at each other; there was a soft smile on his face, and his eyes were full of an adoration that made her heart melt as much as it scared her.

A desperate, fleeting, impossible wish: _take me in your arms and kiss me._

He did not let go of her hand, but tucked it into his arm as they walked into the dining room together. Clara felt as if they were in a dream: to feel his body, alive and warm at her fingertips, was a heady, drunken sensation.

The guests sat, Dolokhov across from her, Clara noting Dolokhov’s slight grimace, the way he perched unnaturally on the edge of his chair, the way he avoided raising his left arm to hold his fork, but rested it lightly on the table. He saw her looking – they had not taken their eyes off each other.

“How are you, Captain?” Clara said quietly, putting an emphasis on the last word. There was no pretense of talking to others: they might as well have been the only people in the room.

He smiled a little smugly at the new title; a glimpse of the wolf, tired but present. “I am well, now. I had to make sure I came back for my mother and my sister, as you are aware.”

She nodded.

He gave her a playful raise of his eyebrow.

“And I was under orders to return, from a Countess, whom I dare not disobey.”

Clara smiled at this. 

“Are you in much pain? When can you continue your military exercises? Riding, swordfighting?”

Dolokhov chuckled. “I have missed your direct manner, Countess. Yes, I miss being able to practice with a sword, and I cannot ride, yet. It all makes me feel helpless, which is a feeling I particularly loathe.”

There was a new level to their conversation they had never reached before: an element of comfort and openness, despite the months between them.

He took a swallow of wine.

“Mostly, though, I am happy to be on my feet again, as there were moments when I was not sure if I would make it back.”

Clara swallowed. “I am so very, very glad you did.”

A flash of absolute vulnerability in his expression: it almost took her breath away.

This had been eroded by memory as well, something she had grown to love about him: the language he spoke entirely with his eyes, his face. His ability to say everything without saying a word.

He opened his mouth, and was forestalled loudly by Lady Orlov, making Clara jump.

“You are so quiet, this evening, Captain Dolokhov! We have missed your dashing presence, it was nothing but dull conversation and quiet afternoon teas while you men were away!”

A small smile played at the corners of Dolokhov’s lips. “Very well, Lady Orlov, I have a story for you, and it is even about a quiet afternoon tea.”

Lady Orlov tittered. “Oh, let us hear it!”

Dolokhov gave Clara a quick wink, before saying,

“We heard some gossip from a visiting general’s family during our week in Belgium. Apparently, there was a Countess who added quite a bit of spice to your annual summer tea. She stood up and shouted the other ladies down – stood up for the soldiers and lent us a bit of morale. Quite shocking, and not so dull a tea at all, apparently.”

Lady Orlov’s smile vanished as she looked at Clara, who hid her own smile behind her glass.

Lady Orlov pursed her lips. 

“Yes, well. I’m glad it was good for the men's morale.”

Sir Kovenchki cut in merrily.

“And what is next for you, Captain Dolokhov? No more wars to fight, God willing!”

“I am still with the regiment, and that will continue to be my life,” he said easily. “The role of Captain will allow me to travel more, which is what I wish; the world is wide and begging to be seen.”

He gave them a smile.

“I have no ties. I am bound to no one.” He gave Clara a quick, burning look as he said this, which made her heart beat faster.

“Yes, you are not married yet! No one has managed to pique that interest – good man!” Sir Kovenchki chortled.

Lady Orlov sighed. “You are so dashing, and a war hero many times over! You should find yourself a nice little general’s daughter, Dolokhov!”

Dolokhov took another drink of his wine. “I have my sights set rather higher,” he said casually.

Lady Orlov leaned forward eagerly. “Higher? Whatever do you mean? Goodness, Dolokhov, I cannot imagine the scandal! You are teasing us, I am sure.”

She giggled, looking around the table.

“An army Captain courting a Princess or a Countess, why, whatever would people think?”

Dolokhov leaned back in his chair with only the slightest wince, focusing on Clara, unfiltered desire and confidence in his eyes.

“Whatever they damn well please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be no doubt of Dolokhov's feelings. He was always going to be the first one to jump, and he has. :D


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary? Oh god. I'll use an analogy Fedya would like: 
> 
> Dolokhov lays all his cards out on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the length. There's been such a build-up between these two. I would have added the first part to the last chapter but then it didn't end as effectively, and...sorry.  
> Also, apologies for another ball. But I wanted them dancing again, for various reasons, and like, what else did these people do? Lol.

Lady Orlov gasped delightedly, and Sir Kovenchki merely chuckled.

" _There_ you are, Dolokhov!” He clapped Dolokhov’s left shoulder heavily, causing Fedya to flinch and tighten his jaw. Sir Kovenchki laughed again. “I knew you were in there somewhere!”

“A toast!” came Pierre’s loud voice, and attention was pulled to the head of the table.

“To our men who fought bravely, and have returned home to us.”

The guests echoed him, Clara raising her glass and looking back at Dolokhov, who gave her a stunning smile.

 

XXXXX

 

Clara did not have another moment alone with Dolokhov for the rest of the evening, until the very end, when she was leaving. He was staying with Pierre and Natasha, and had joined them in the entrance foyer as the dinner guests took their leave.

She stopped in front of him, smiling.

“I cannot adequately express my joy at seeing you home safe, Captain.” 

The look on his face was unashamedly affectionate. She had to look down at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“I enjoyed your conversation at dinner, particularly your story about the summer tea.”

He flashed a grin.

“I was being wicked, teasing Lady Orlov. It was a quite amusing story to the men, you know. It traveled fast. We heard a tale about a lady fairly shouting at the guests, standing up for the soldiers. I knew it had to be you.”

Clara laughed. “I could not stand another moment of sitting there, listening to idle, meaningless, chatter.”

Dolokhov smiled. “I am quite familiar with the feeling.”

Another eager man came up behind her, exclaiming at Dolokhov and grabbing his hand, shaking it. Clara stepped away and found herself in front of Natasha, who looked at her in understanding.

“Clara, has he spoken to you?”

Clara shook her head, and said quietly, 

“I wish desperately he would approach me, and yet I cannot accept! What am I to do?”

“Oh, Clara, I wish I could tell you – I am so sorry, my dear. Will you be at the Mikhailoff summer ball, next week? Dolokhov is going to see his mother and sister tomorrow, but he will be returning to join us.”

Clara nodded, and gave a sudden laugh.

“He overwhelms me to where I can barely keep a thought in my head. It is something I love about him: he lifts away my tired, burdensome thoughts. And yet it is those thoughts that I need the most, in order to explain myself to him.”

They embraced, more friends crowding around them, and Clara waved and stepped aside, into the summer air and her waiting carriage.

 

XXXXX

 

Clara had never been able to resist delight at a summer ball. She loved to dance, loved the sensory richness of it. She had not grown up with such a grand lifestyle, and this particular event never ceased to amaze her with its air of romance and possibility.

She took extra care with her toilette that evening, purposefully choosing the most daring dress she owned. She gazed at her reflection as a maid fixed a sparkling tiara in her hair, thankful for the first time for her elegant features. Her beauty had been a piece of her that had always been sold or traded; tonight it was hers to share with who she chose. She gave a final glance at herself before leaving the room, aware of how much she wanted she desired Dolokhov’s attention.

Another week apart from him, going over her memory of him at Pierre and Natasha’s: it had wreaked havoc on her normally implacable temperament. _That_ had dissolved into a formless combination of feelings: desire and lust, longing and apprehension. She could not wait to see him, to touch him.

She and Marya arrived together; Clara’s nerves on fire with a level of excitement previously unknown to her. They entered the foyer, the crowd of people immense.

The evening promised to be memorable; there were easily hundreds of people gathered in the Mikhailoffs grand family home. The wine was flowing, the food was abundant, and the level of noise and laughter spilled out into the warm evening, the glow of the party almost making the candlelight unnecessary.

There was a magnetic pull between her and Dolokhov that Clara could not escape. All evening, during a grand dinner where she did not sit by him, during conversations about sleeve lengths, during a slow game of cards, she felt it. 

She talked with Natasha and Pierre, had her hand kissed enthusiastically and with a wink by Mikhailoff, laughed so hard she bent over double with Marya. She archly turned away many offers from gentlemen, turning them down in a way that deeply amused her friends. The night grew darker, Clara aware that somewhere in one of the many rooms, was Fedya. 

She had passed by him many times, surrounded by well-wishers and officers, by women and men wanting to speak to him, meet him.

Each time their eyes met, Clara felt it down to her bones.

The ballroom doors opened, and the guests flooded onto the shining floor, the orchestra lending an extra layer of festivity to the evening.

At last, Dolokhov found her, sitting with Marya and Natasha, and suddenly he was standing in front of her, smiling at her. She stood up and faced him, her body already humming in response.

He kissed her hand.

“Dance with me.”

It was an order of seduction, and they both knew it.

“Can you manage it, Captain, with your injury?” she said, managing to inject some coolness into her voice, relieved that her nerves hadn’t entirely abandoned her.

Dolokhov matched her tone. “As long as we are slow, Countess.”

He gave a sudden, predatory smile and leaned forward, whispering. “And let me be clear, Clara. I mean to savour every moment with you that I have, as slowly as I possibly can.”

Her heartbeat quickened. She took his offered arm and they walked to the dance floor, the looks on her friends’ faces made of mingled happiness and concern.

Dolokhov drew her to him with a naturalness that made Clara feel as if they had never been apart. There was a shared understanding with their body language now, an ease they did not have to discuss.

He lead her through the dance at a much softer rhythm than he had months ago, and he kept them to the edge of the floor. She could feel the tense way he held himself, the slight stiffness in his movements, especially with his left side. 

Yet the style was more dangerous, more seductive, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, her body, as if he were going to devour her.

The touch of him, every kiss and breath between them, their months apart: it was racing through her veins like wine. She pressed herself against him, and felt the rumble of his groan, his hand moving dangerously low on her back.

“From the moment I saw you, I wanted you,” he said, into her ear, and she closed her eyes.

“You were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I swore to myself I would have you.”

Clara’s breath caught, her body remembering what he had already done to it once, what it would mean for him to have more.

“And then I met you, and you rejected me with such complete and utter authority. I had never received such a reaction to my advances in my life.”

She felt every word, his breath tickling her neck. Her head was spinning.

“And then, then I became acquainted with you. Your refusal to play by the rules, your sharp wit, your quiet, passionate streak that called to my own, angrier one. The way you lectured me, the way you turned me to face my own shortcomings.”

Clara smiled at him. “You deserved every word.”

Dolokhov pressed a quick, fiery kiss to her cheek.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “And I could have you lecture me every day.”

He pressed his forehead gently to hers.

“My clever, strong, darling Clara.”

She closed her eyes, his words echoing through her blood, unwilling to ever stop dancing, unwilling to let the moment end.

They were so close to each other she was sure it was past the bounds of propriety, but she was so consumed with longing that she did not care.

The careful restraint they had operated under all evening was rapidly dissolving. Clara pressed herself further against him and felt the evidence of his desire, felt his hand tighten on her back.

Need was rising and twisting between them, and Clara felt as if she could barely hold herself up, her body was so heavy with it. She was craving his touch so strongly it was overwhelming, and she opened her eyes to see his burning, echoing her own thoughts, her pulse a demanding throb between her legs.

The music stopped, and this time, they did not wait to stand and applaud.

 

XXXXX

 

It was their own history repeating itself as they walked through the hallway, Dolokhov pulling them both through the first door he found into a sitting room, and closing it behind them. He barely had time to shut it to before she turned to him, before his strong arms were around her, before oh, _yes,_ his mouth was on hers, kissing her with unbridled hunger, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like a starving man.

He was skillful, and teasing, too: his tongue commanding, deepening the kiss, making her dizzy and breathless, purposefully matching the thrusting of his hard length against her dress, against that aching need at her core, again and again. 

Then he was slow and soft, his tongue gentle, the movement of his hips careful, drawing out the pleasure of contact lightly, lovingly, before plunging back into a faster, harder pace again. 

Clara was moaning, shamelessly, rubbing herself against him, forgetting herself entirely. She was undoing his jacket roughly, her hands desperate for the feel of his skin, tugging on buttons and finally pulling it open, loosening his collar and shirt. Her fingers were underneath the fabric, feeling the warmth of his chest, the hair rough and soft at the same time. 

He had pulled back, watching her with hooded, darkened eyes, as her hands explored lower. They brushed, gently, to his stomach, and his breath hitched as she felt a long, raised line of roughness from the bottom of his ribcage, across the planes of his stomach, down his side, into the waist of his pants. The ridges of stitches were such a contrast with the warm and even skin around it; a reminder of what he had suffered, what he had almost not come back from.

Her fingertips went still lower, and she stroked his erection, marveling at the hardness of it, the vitality of him, completely at her mercy. His eyes fluttered closed.

“I have dreamed of you for months,” he said, his voice low.

“Did you dream this?” Clara whispered, as she began a slow, languid rhythm with her hand.

He groaned softly, throwing his head back, arching his neck. His hands clenched at his sides. She kept her pace, watching pleasure chase itself across his features, acting on instinct, his reaction the only guide she needed.

He opened his eyes, smiling at her, and pulled her to him in another bruising kiss. Clara moaned again into his mouth, losing herself in him. This man who lived with such fearless intensity, who had shown her passion and honesty, who had taken her by storm: he was giving himself over to her.

She felt as if she was gloriously drunk, she felt ecstatic: she was in love.

The realization was like champagne, bubbling up, threading in and out of her desire and out of her fingertips.

Then, another realization, right on its heels, like a wall of ice.

_Wait._

Her hands slowed, her pulse rapid. She drew back, her senses crying out in protest. His hands had been traveling down the sides of her body, and he stopped, feeling her sudden hesitation.

“We must – we must stop and think,” she said, breathless, her palm coming up flat against his chest.

“Alright,” he said, his own breath rapid; she could feel his heart thundering against her hand.

“I – need a moment.” Clara shook her head, gathering her thoughts.

Slowly, tenderly, he took her hand from his chest and kissed the tips of her fingers with a gentle smile, before taking a step back, releasing her, giving her space.

“I am sorry,” she said.

His eyes were soft. “Clara.” He shook his head. “There is nothing to be sorry for. It is hardly surprising; I practically carried you off the dance floor.” He gave her a familiar, wolfish grin. “I am not much of a gentleman, you know.”

She laughed, and he smiled, before taking her hand again, lightly, his rough thumb stroking idly at her wrist.

“But what you must know,” he whispered, his expression soft again. “Is how I feel for you.”

She shook her head, helplessly. She had both wished passionately for his declaration and dreaded it. Now the moment had arrived, and it felt like a horrible weight was settling on her heart.

“Fedya – please, don’t.”

Her pleading surprised him – she saw it in his expression. His brows came together.

“You do not wish me to continue.” His tone was laced with confusion.

“No, please do not.” She felt as if she would burst into tears and scream, all at once.

He was studying her, at a loss. He lifted his hand, reaching for her, but stopped himself at the shake of her head, and a closed look came over his face.

“We cannot be – we cannot continue.” Clara felt sick, but she thought of her father, her brother. She lifted her chin, his words about her lectures echoing in her thoughts.

“What have I missed?” His voice; that sharpness, that haughty indifference. It was creeping back in.

“Your – your reputation,” she said, the words sounding weak to her own ears.

“Yes, I am aware of it,” snapped Dolokhov.

“There is no need to lose your temper,” said Clara, feeling close to losing her own, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “And if you are aware of it, then you must also be aware of my own position.”

Dolokhov’s eyes flashed.

“And what position is that?”

“I am a Countess, and – “

“And what? I am nothing but a soldier? I believe, Clara, it is a little late for that,” he said, giving her a rueful smile, and beginning to pace in front of her.

“It is not entirely that – it is the whole of your past, Dolokhov! You have led a completely – _reckless_ \- life!”

He uttered a short, cold, exclamation of laughter at this.

She swallowed and kept going. She must explain – she must explain all of it.

“You have had every woman that you wanted, and you have emptied pockets across Russia! You are known from Moscow to St. Petersburg as a scoundrel! We would be inviting the scandal of St. Petersburg down upon our heads! What possible future is there for us, Fedya?”

He stopped his pacing and looked back at her: she had regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. This is not what she had planned to say.

“Not every woman that I wanted,” he said, and she felt, for the first time in her life, a hot flush steal onto her face.

He came closer. “I have thought you many things, Clara Palecekev, but never did I think of you as afraid.”

It stung; she closed her eyes.

He came up against her again, pulling her roughly to him, his mouth capturing hers in a slow, languid kiss that she returned, needing it, hating herself. He stopped, his lips still against hers.

“I am in love with you,” he whispered against her mouth. She meant to take a breath; it was a sob that escaped.

“I have fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with you,” he repeated, his voice so rough it was breaking, “and I can see, now, how very _reckless_ that was of me.”

“Fedya,” she whispered. “I-“

She must tell him, she must explain, but she had not meant it to follow his confession of love. It was all a mess, and she was losing him.

He took a step backwards, an utterly hurt expression in his eyes that shattered her. She had thought about this conversation many times: she had always expected anger. She had never imagined the pain and sadness on his face that she was seeing now.

“Do not let me detain you a moment longer, Countess. No doubt you have less scandalous ways to spend your time.”

He turned and left, closing the door behind him, and Clara sank to the floor, her dress pooling around her, regret and longing coursing bitterly through her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov and Clara react after their fight.

Clara was not sure how long she sat there with her head in her hands, but she knew it was no more than a few minutes before the door opened, quietly, and closed again.

She looked up as Dolokhov came and stood against the wall, his shirt still loose, his jacket still open. She stared at him. He gave her a rueful look. 

“There is something you should perhaps know. I have a temper.”

She laughed.

“As do I.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I had half a mind to hit the next man who came near me. I was seething.”

He was looking at the floor, speaking almost to himself.

“At the same time, I could not stop myself from remembering your desperate plea of “wait,” and I could not stop myself from seeing the look on your face when I left.”

He looked at her. 

“I cannot be wrong in thinking you return my feelings.”

Clara held his gaze steadily. 

“No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You are not wrong at all.”

A look of utter happiness stole onto his face. He strode over to her and pulled her back up, into his arms. 

He had her face in his hands, his eyes anxiously seeking hers.

“Clara. Is my past truly in the way?”

She closed her eyes, turning her cheek into his palm. 

“It is what my family thinks of that past.”

She opened her eyes. “My late husband’s relatives. If I marry beneath my station, or to a – less socially desirable- match – I lose my fortune. He wrote it into his will.” She put her hand over his, looking at him. 

“And that money – my father and brother – they rely on me.”

Dolokhov’s eyes were full of sympathy. “I know something of that.”

She sighed, her heart full. “Yes.”

He stroked his thumb across her cheek, and his hands went to her waist. “Why in God’s name did you not begin with that explanation?”

She laughed again. “I was – you are – distracting.”

He gave her glimpse of his lethal smile before his features changed into an expression of sadness.

“I have never lived my life with regret, but it is churning through me now, and I find it very bitter.”

Clara was filled with an overwhelming sense of unfairness. She had learned long ago to put away dreams of love in favour of practicality, but that resolve had never been tested like this. 

“There is no need for regret,” she said. “It is useless. I just cannot abandon my family-“

He shook his head, and she stopped.

“You do not have to continue.” He took a deep breath before speaking the horrible confirmation out loud:

“There is no way around it.”

Clara shook her head. She swallowed against the ache in her throat, wanting to say something but not having the right words.

“I had not imagined tonight ending like this.”

The look of love on his face was enough to have her wanting to sink back to the floor.

“I had not imagined it ending at all.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“I would have asked for your hand, this evening.”

He released her, gently. 

“Fedya.” She knew he was letting her go, knew it must happen. They could not continue as they were; it would be torture.

He stepped away, fixing his shirt and buttoning his jacket. She adjusted her gown, touched her hair. Small gestures of heartbreak.

A moment of silence, a last, shared look, and Dolokhov offered his arm.

“The world beckons.”

“Yes. I rather hate it, at the moment.”

He laughed at this, and they left the room together, walking down the hall. She wanted to walk beside him, her hand on his arm, forever. 

She slowed, and he echoed her. She looked up at him.

“I would have said yes.”

His green eyes glittered, and he dropped his head slightly, pressing one last tender kiss to her lips, soft and sweet, before they entered the ballroom, enveloped by the party once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the beginning of this chapter written twice, with two entirely different routes eventually ending up in the same place.
> 
> The other option was that Fedya _did_ go out and get into a fight. (With Petrekoff, my oh-so-handy, randomly-there-when-I-need trouble, guy.) Lol. It was going to be minor fisticuffs, but then have Clara talk him down again to where they're calm enough to say goodbye.
> 
> But this one was the way I had originally written it, before writing the flashier version. This one is more telling, I think. Fedya has reached the point where he's changed enough to not engage immediately in destructive behaviour. 
> 
> He still gets angry, and he still has a temper. He still stormed out of the room after his passionate declaration. But this time he has the wherewithal to collect himself on his own, to master himself. The personality is still there, but the maturity of his reaction shows his growth. 
> 
> (I dearly hope!) :D Thanks goes out to under_my_blue_umbrella for the clear-cut and helpful advice to go with my gut instinct. (Very Dolokhov!)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov and Clara part ways. Clara returns to her husband's estate, and receives some news.

If there was ever a feeling Dolokhov loathed, it was inaction. Yet it was his only choice this evening, as he and Clara walked through the ballroom. Neither of them felt up to dancing. He sensed an unspoken understanding between them; their remaining time was unraveling, by the time it took them to reach the drawing room, it would be over.

Would he at least continue to see her at these social evenings? Would that be worse, or better?

“Will you continue to stay in St. Petersburg?” 

She looked at him, the sadness in her eyes an answer before she gave it.

“I think I will stay with my relatives outside Moscow. I need to…I need some time.”

Dolokhov nodded. Tonight was the end, then. 

They returned to the grand drawing room. He saw Mikhailoff glance his way from the card table, eyebrows raised in conspiratorial congratulations, before frowning at Dolokhov’s shake of the head and warning look.

Sir Kovenchki came forward. “Well, well, well! I have spied the two of you together often! Goodness, Countess, this man is far too dangerous to be sneaking about with!”

He chortled, and Dolokhov gave no outward sign of his inclination to deck the man other than a tight smile. He felt Clara’s hand tighten on his arm.

He simply stared at Kovenchki, who continued, with a wink,

“Countess, you had better be careful! Why, what this fellow can do to a lady’s reputation-”

“Sir Kovenchki!” cried Clara, interrupting. “May I remind you that I will spend my evening however I like, with whomever I please.”

She gave him a dazzling smile. 

“And Captain Dolokhov has always been a perfect gentleman, carefully attending to my every desire.”

Dolokhov felt his anger dissolve into humour at her words. It was so perfectly Clara; the rapid, controlled reply, the double meaning tangled in the quelling comment.

Then Sir Kovenchki was asking her whether or not she had yet seen his wife that evening, and he was making excuses, and Clara was being pulled away.  
Clara’s hand left his arm, which he lowered. A quick grasp of his hand, hidden in the fabric of her dress. His fingers tightened over hers; he tried to tell her with his eyes everything that he was feeling. One final gift; her usually controlled features open, focused entirely on him, and bursting with love. He let go of her hand and watched Sir Kovenchki lead her away through the throng of people.

He did not see her again that night, had not expected to: they had said their own version of goodbye earlier. When he found Pierre and asked him if he had seen her, the reply was that Clara’s carriage had already left.

And that was it.

He stalked a few paces to a standing servant and tossed a drink back.

He understood; he knew far better than most of the people gathered here tonight what it was to be owned by money, instead of the reverse. He too, felt the weight and obligation of being the one that was relied upon to provide. He knew that fierce love and loyalty to family. 

There was no more to say; there was nothing to fight. He had nothing to combat the anger and hopelessness surging through him; nothing to soothe the grief at losing Clara. It was creeping at the edges of his reality, lurking.

He walked through to the next room, grabbing another glass off a passing tray and downing it, guests avoiding him and the dark scowl he wore.

The first and only time he had allowed himself to be absolutely in love, and he had let himself fall, completely. There had been other times that he had played along to society's rules, other times that he had sought out the possibility of marriage. All mistakes.

Clara had been different: Clara had been his heart.

Mikhailoff found him, later, many drinks in. 

“Fedya, you look like a thundercloud!" Mikhailoff looked sympathetic. "I gather we’re not celebrating what you’d hoped.”

“I will tell you the story tomorrow. I’ve lost her, Aleks, and tonight, it is either drink myself into oblivion or go mad.”

Mikhailoff put a hand on his shoulder, giving him an encouraging shake. “Alright, brother. Oblivion it shall be.”

Dolokhov nodded, motioning to a servant for more wine.

Inaction. Useless, infuriating inaction.

 

XXXXX

 

The predominant topic of conversation in September was the weather: after a golden summer, there was an unseasonably early chill to the air. Clara loved the brisk effect of walking in it, and found herself outside every morning, exploring the vast gardens of the Palecekev country estate. It had never felt like home, and the past two months spent living within its borders had not warmed her towards it. However, she was aware of the privilege of having extensive grounds at her disposal, and she spent as much time in them as she could.

The house, in contrast, suffocated her. It had become even more of a prison than it had ever been; a daily reminder of what was necessary, a daily reminder of what she had given up. Inside it, her memories threatened to overtake her: thoughts of Dolokhov were both her only companions and instruments of torture.

Her pace was quick, the ground frosty at her feet as she turned and walked up the path leading back inside. Her cousin-in-law, Duchess Palecekev, was waiting for her in the sitting room. Clara gave her coat and scarf to the young maid standing silently in the hall.

“Thank you, Mariya,” she said, and she heard her cousin gave an imperious sniff; she disapproved of Clara’s habit of talking to servants.

“Come here, Clara,” came the impatient command, and Clara walked into the sitting room, taking a seat. The two women were unmoving, silently staring at each other, Clara’s shoulders set. She never spoke first: it was a game she played with herself, a small measure of control in a life where she had very little.

“We have received correspondence from your brother,” said the Duchess.

“How odd, it is usually just me that he writes to,” said Clara icily. It was not uncommon for her relatives to commandeer her letters.

Her cousin absorbed this little jab, then proceeded.

“He writes to inform you that your father is doing as well as can be expected.”

Clara breathed out, softly, looking at her hands twisted in her lap. Her father was always her first worry.

“And,” the Duchess continued, “your brother claims he is to be married.”

Clara looked up. “Married?”

Duchess Palecekev sniffed again. “Yes, Clara. It is what people do.”

Clara smiled. She had almost forgotten, in the passing years, that Patrick was old enough to married. He was eternally the age of sixteen in her memory. It was bittersweet news; she was thrilled for her likeable, good-natured little brother, but she missed him terribly. She did not know her future sister-in-law at all.

She looked at her cousin, wanting to know more.

“Does he say what the lady is like?”

Duchess Palecekev frowned.

“It is an extremely advantageous match to an English woman of high standing. He is most fortunate, given his low background.” She fluttered her hand at Clara. “Much like yourself.”

Clara was used to fighting the asides thrown in her direction, but today she did not care. Her thoughts were racing.

“I would like to see the letter,” she said, firmly.

“Clara, I have already told you what you need to-“

“Please, cousin. Would you deny me such a happy favour?”

The Duchess sucked in a breath, calculating. Clara did not often beg.

“Yes, I suppose it is fine.” She got heavily to her feet and unlocked the drawer of her writing desk, withdrawing the letter. She made her way slowly back to Clara, who barely kept from snatching it away in her eagerness.

She read quickly, her heart pounding.

Duchess Palecekev watched. “Well. Is it not what I said? Is it not an extremely advantageous match? He will become a Lord.” She scoffed. 

“It is indeed,” Clara agreed. “It is so advantageous that Patrick says he will be able to look after our father.”

The Duchess gave a careless shrug.

Clara laughed. “He says he is glad to take on the burden of financial responsibility, after I have carried it for so long.”

The Duchess stared at Clara.

“You look unreasonably happy at such trivial news, although I allow it is convenient we no longer have to support them.”

Clara jumped up. “Duchess, I am leaving for St. Petersburg in the morning.”

“That would be ridiculous, Clara. Whatever is in Petersburg that is so urgent?”

Clara laughed a bit wildly before going to her cousin and kissing her heartily on the cheek. The lady gave a gasp, pushing at her.

“Really, Clara! What has gotten into you? This is hardly behaviour befitting a Countess!”

Clara gave her a wide, open-hearted smile. “Then it is a good thing I am to be a Countess for not much longer.”

She left, almost running from the room, the Duchess’ confused protests following her into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello, Plot Convenience! ;D  
> So Clara's brother is to the rescue. (I _did_ mention her brother many times.) Heh heh. It's a very convenient way to solve things, but I never wanted Dolokhov to miraculously become rich, nor did I want them to ignore all of their problems and run away together. It was always going to be her brother. She'll still end up making a "scandalous" choice if she marries Dolokhov, and she'll lose the fortune tied to her late husband, but obviously, she doesn't care. :D
> 
> This is very, very "neat," as they say, but if I've done my job right, you'll be happier at the news than annoyed at how convenient it is. :D


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya and Clara are reunited. :)

Another glittering society evening, another room of gossip and cards. Dolokhov took a thorough drink from his glass and shifted in his chair. He was barely paying attention to the game. He amused himself briefly with imagining what Clara would have to say about the night, before horrible reality hit him again.

“You look positively bleak,” said Mikhailoff quietly at his side.

“I am positively unable to sit here any longer,” Fedya returned, but softened his remark with a smile for his friend. 

He got up, excusing himself, and walked to the window. 

His injury was bothering him; the stiffness in his side worsening with the oncoming colder weather. He flicked his tongue to his split lip, courtesy of this morning. It was the result of stepping in to intervene in a fight between two new recruits. It had probably not been necessary to throw himself into such a skirmish, but the need to vent his black mood these days was a constant, buzzing threat. It had felt good to step into the hit he knew would reach him, felt good to forcefully separate the men. A bleeding and swollen mouth was a small price to pay for a slight release.

A sudden image overtook him: a darkened hallway with Clara, the first time she kissed him, raising tentative lips to his own swollen bottom one. 

He closed his eyes, almost swaying forward with the rush of emotion that he tried, daily, to keep at bay. Forgetting Clara turned out be far easier in theory than in practice.

He should take up the offer to act as a Captain of the traveling reserves; he was longing for escape. What was stopping him? 

_The fact that he had planned to do so with Clara as his wife._

He pressed his hot forehead to the cold window.

“The Countess Palecekev,” came the loud announcement, and Dolokhov’s heart stopped. He turned, unbelievingly, from the window. Clara was there, rising from a curtsy, her eyes already meeting his from the doorway, seeking him out.

Time hung suspended: disbelief was holding him hostage, and he could not move. 

“Clara, my dear!” Natasha cried, and came up to her, embracing her. The rest of the guests turned back to their chatter. “What a lovely surprise: we were not expecting you!”

Clara laughed, and reality caught up with the present, slamming into him as he watched the woman who had occupied his every waking moment kiss Natasha’s cheek. 

“I know, Natasha, I am very horrible to pounce on you like this, unsuspecting. I am in Petersburg, and I really had to come see you.”

Dolokhov had begun moving across the room without realizing it, the stiffness in his side forgotten. Then, she was blissfully, stunningly in front of him, more beautiful than his memories had given her credit. 

He bowed over Clara’s hand, drinking her in. There was a difference to the way she held herself; the coolness still present, but the aloof restraint had given way to a hum of energy. He lingered over her hand, her eyes flaring slightly as they both felt that latent electricity come charging back at once.

“Countess.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling.

“Captain Dolokhov, it is so good to see you.”

He could not believe that she was here, inches away. He was having trouble battling the overwhelming need to sweep her into his arms and push them both against the wall. 

_I have spent the past two months missing you._

“You look – very well,” he managed, truthfully.

“You look a bit worse for the wear,” she shot back, her eyes on his lip, and he could not help the grin on his face, painful though it was.

“Would you care to accompany me?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was a shock to feel her light touch on his sleeve once more, sending a dart of desire through him. They began to walk towards the window.

“I have news from my brother,” she began, and he smiled again; she had not lost that direct way of speaking that he so loved.

“I hope he is well, and your father,” he said, his eyes on her profile, unable to stop looking at her.

Clara stopped, turning towards him.

“My brother is getting married, and he is to be a Lord.”

Dolokhov stared at her, his spinning brain trying to absorb her words. There was a possible implication behind this statement, but he said nothing.

Clara looked at him, her face joyful, and he didn’t know if he could even hear what she might say next, didn’t know if he could bear the hope that was rushing, rising through him.

“He will be able to completely look after my father,” she said. “I am free of that responsibility.”

Dolokhov reached for her hands, only to find she had already placed them on his chest.

“Your title,” he said, and his voice was rough. “You will lose it.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I never wanted it.” 

Adrenaline was making him light-headed. He had to be sure.

“My past-“

“Made you the man standing here, and remains where it is; far behind you.”

She reached a hand up to his face, and he was surprised to feel it shaking. He clasped it steadily in his, and received another shock at the sight of tears sparkling in her eyes as she beamed at him. He had never seen her cry; had never seen her look so vulnerable.

“I am here to tell you that I love you, and that I am free to do so.”

He let out an exhale; he had been holding his breath.

“Fedya.” Clara’s voice was clear as ever. “I love you.”

He needed no other encouragement; he gathered her to him and kissed her. He heard the gasps of the assembled guests and felt Clara’s smile against his mouth, the sting of his cut lip glorious.

He swept out his long jacket behind him and knelt before her. 

“Marry me, my darling Clara.” 

She did not need to say yes, he simply looked up at her, clasping her hands in his, giving them a slow kiss, and she nodded. After all their shared words and heated exchanges, they spoke without needing to say anything.

He got to his feet, reaching his arms around her waist and kissing her again, slanting his mouth to hers and thrilling in her eager response. He couldn’t stop himself, didn’t give a damn what this looked like, he was kissing her, and lifting her slightly to him so her feet were almost off the ground. She was almost his height; he was leaning back and letting her body sink into his, and they were running out of air. 

“Good God man, this is highly irregular!” came the shout of Sir Kovenchki. 

Dolokhov set Clara down, grinning madly. He wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her cheeks.

She laughed, and they turned to face the assembled, stunned faces. Clara clasped his hand.

It was Mikhailoff who broke the tension, striding forward with a broad grin.

“Dolokhov, you never do anything quietly, do you my friend? Let us congratulate you!” This was met with laughter, and Dolokhov and Clara found themselves in a sudden outpouring of people swarming forward with good wishes.

Lady Orlov’s disapproving expression could be seen across the room, Clara pointed it out in a whisper and he smiled.

“I can’t imagine a more rewarding reaction, can you?”

Clara tilted her head, thoughtful and mischievous. “I am looking forward to telling my cousins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. Omg.
> 
> I wrote and re-wrote this - I had paragraphs of dialogue - but then the more I thought about it, the more I realized that overly flowerly language isn't Fedya's style - and neither is it Clara's.
> 
> They already know how they feel, and in fact it's even more in character for him to just take immediate action. 
> 
> Almost done - the next chapter is quite a bit of fun. Clara and Fedya announce their plans to her relatives, and they get a wicked moment in the library.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and Dolokhov announce their upcoming marriage to her late husband's relatives, and their passion gets the better of them in the library.
> 
> Content warning: smut. Apologies to the library. :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Epilogue to come, but - this is the last full chapter.  
> I wrote this fic almost entirely in one go. The outline was a breeze, and each chapter was fast. That hasn't happened before, and I don't know if it will ever happen again. I have pages and pages and pages of unused stories and conversation and events between these two, and of Dolokhov being Dolokhov. 
> 
> This came to me so naturally that I wanted to write it even if nobody read it. I was so surprised that there are those of you out there that did! THANK YOU a hundred, thousand, million times over for reading. You would not believe how much happiness your comments have been responsible for! I have loved and appreciated every. single. word.  
> The fact that you read and commented, enjoyed and took this journey with me, well - it means more than I'll ever be able to say in a chapter note box. 
> 
> THANK YOU! *hugs to you all*

Clara took a steadying breath, and exchanged a glance with Dolokhov. He took her hand with a confident smile and a wink. It was another thing about him she was learning: he did not show nerves.

She supposed it was the fact that he had seen battle more than once. 

Or perhaps, she smiled to herself, it was because he threw himself so completely into every moment that it did not occur to him to waste time thinking about it.

The sitting room doors opened, and they walked through to see the Duke and Duchess Palecekev imperiously waiting for them. 

Clara curtsied and came forward, kissing her cousins on the cheek, before stepping back to Dolokhov’s side.

“May I present Captain Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov.”

He gave them a stately bow, and Clara did not miss the Duchess’ gaze pass over Fedya’s handsome features as he rose back up.

The Duke glared menacingly at them. 

“I know of you, Captain. Clara wrote to tell us you were to accompany her on a visit; I almost did not allow it.” 

He pointed a finger at Dolokhov.

“Why she should seek out the society of such a man as yourself is quite beyond our comprehension, although she has always been too _headstrong_ of a woman. Evgeni himself did not like it about her, and she has never lost that quality.”

Clara felt Dolokhov tense beside her; she had warned him of the surety of her cousins’ dismissive commentary towards her.

 _He_ had not warned _her_ , however, that he would react. He gave a cavalier stretch of his neck.

“I am extremely glad she never lost it – I quite enjoy that particular trait of hers.”

The Duchess gave a small gasp.

“Captain, your manners are shocking!”

Dolokhov bowed again.

“As promised.” 

Clara hid the smile pulling at her mouth by squinting hard at the wall.

The Duchess then turned to Clara.

“What is the meaning of bringing this scoundrel into our home?”

Clara looked at her steadily.

“He is to be my husband.”

The Duchess gasped, and the Duke rose, shaking, from his chair.

“That is an outrageous claim, Clara! How dare you suggest bringing ignominy upon the Palecekev name!”

“I will not bear that name any longer,” said Clara emphatically. “I willingly give it up.” She felt Dolokhov move closer to her side, felt his tightly controlled anger, and it gave her strength.

The Duchess stepped closer, suspicious.

“You would give up an entire fortune? The title and life of Countess?”

“I would.”

The Duchess’ face darkened.

“You were nothing but an insolent creature when Evgeni brought you to us. Pretty, I suppose, but really, nothing but a vile girl who never knew how to act or when to hold her tongue.”

“I am glad of it, for that loose tongue enables me to say this: living underneath your influence has been an unkind and unforgiving prison sentence.”

They gasped, in tandem, and Clara was torn between laughing at the absurdity of the situation and yelling at them in a release of long-held anger.

The Duke and Duchess began speaking in an outburst.

“How dare you, you ungrateful, _shameful_ , girl-“

Dolokhov, who had been standing beside her like a coiled panther, cleared his throat, loudly. Clara looked sideways at him; his stance was casual, but the deadly anger emanating from him was potent.

Her cousins stopped their tirade, glaring.

Clara straightened her spine, raising herself as tall as she could.

“Marrying Captain Dolokhov is my choice. I have never been so happy to give up something like a fortune and title, and I embrace my freedom without any regret.”

She threw in one last blow; she might as well do this properly.

“And he will be the best husband I will have.”

She looked at Dolokhov, who gave her a startled smile; she could tell she had surprised even him.

The Duchess stepped back, and sat down suddenly onto her chair, mouth gaping. The Duke however, grimaced at them. 

“Insolent girl! Where do you get the nerve to say such things?”

“I suppose we shall have to blame it on my being such a headstrong woman.” Clara curtsied a final time. “This is goodbye. I shall collect my possessions and we will leave.”

Dolokhov bowed as well, and practically pulled her from the room, leaving her cousins behind.

They made it two paces before he had her against the wall.

“I originally thought you a firebrand, and now I discover you’re a damn cannon,” he said, in between burning, impassioned kisses.

Adrenaline was coursing through her, mixing with the certain knowledge of freedom and the high of telling off her relatives. She was pulling at his shirt, unbuttoning his vest, and his hands were already sweeping down the sides of her body. She hardly cared where they were; hardly cared her cousins were just outside the door a few feet away.

She wanted more.

“I cannot stand it, I cannot wait,” she said, and he drew back.

“Clara,” he said, his voice low. “I would not expect you-we are not married-“

He halted as her hands slowly went to his breeches, and carefully undid the top button. 

“Boom,” she whispered, and his eyes gleamed.

She began kissing him again, her tongue demanding in his mouth, and she felt him give in, felt his hunger, their need echoed in each other, their months of teasing and halted opportunities rising up between them.

She broke away, turning, grabbing his hand, dragging him along the hallway and pushing open the first door she found.

“Leave it, leave it, don’t bother,” he commanded breathlessly as the door shut behind them, Clara pulling at the knot of his silk cravat. She got it undone and yanked it loose, tossing it to the floor before they were kissing again, needy and desperate. She undid his last vest button, he pulled his vest and shirt off, she kicked off her shoes. Dolokhov walked them backwards, his hands firm around her, keeping her balance for her as they stumbled.

Clara felt the back of her legs hit solid wood, barely had time to register it before she was lifted up and sat down on it, was barely aware of anything except the relentless throbbing, heavy ache in her legs, in her stomach, at her core.

He was grabbing at the hem of her dress, he got it up past her knees, to her waist, she tilted back for all of a moment to spread her legs and he pressed himself, hard and hot, against her. One of his hands came down with a slam, flat on the surface behind her, as he braced himself, rocking into her. She arched her neck, panting: the contact was glorious and it wasn’t nearly enough.

She hooked her leg on his waist and pulled him closer, her mouth on his, her hand coming down between their legs and undoing the rest of his pants, springing him free, and working his straining length with her hand.  
He was pushing his erection into her palm, his eyes closed, half-growling with each thrust, before he slowed into sensual, teasing movements. His other hand came up and caressed her breast, slowly, lightly, until Clara was lifting herself up and into his touch.

He brushed a thumb across a nipple through the fabric and Clara gasped.

He bent his head, kissing the skin at the top of her chest, slowly, delicately, brushing his lips and mustache down the skin as his thumb stroked again. He pulled the neckline of her dress down, capturing a peaked, stiffened nipple in his mouth.

Clara startled, moaning, as he sucked, all too gently.

“I want you, I want-“ she was begging, but all of a sudden she was grasping at air instead of his shirt as he moved down her body. She experienced a wave of shocking lust at his expression, his eyes dangerous, as he got on his knees.

“What-?”

“Stay still,” he instructed gruffly, pulling her hips forward and positioning himself between her legs. Instinct was informing her of the impossible, but she could not process-  
His hands skimmed along her body, sweeping over her stomach before landing on her hips, pinning them down. He turned his head to the inside of her thigh, above her garters, his mustache tickling the delicate skin, pressing soft, luscious kisses in a row towards the junction at the very top. He gave a hot swipe of his tongue along the indent of her hip and thigh, and Clara’s whole body jumped, but her hips were still held by his hands.

His huff of laughter was torturous. 

Not as torturous as the light breath of air he blew on her mound, and then she was overwhelmed by the feeling of his tongue, lapping and delving and sucking, and the warm bursts of pleasure rushing from her scalp to her toes. His tongue was sinful, it was sublime, and she was turning her head to one side and then the other, her hands clenching and unclenching onto nothing, desperate, overcome.

“Don’t fight it,” came the husked order, and Clara gripped his hair, bewildered and overcome at the pleasure, at this level of intimate exposure, this loss of control.

“Surrender,” he commanded, and she did, half-sobbing, her body shaking, the pleasure so intense she was unaware, for many wonderful moments, of where she was.

She lay there dreamily, saw him standing before her, his cock proud and erect and swollen, and desire began building again, immediately, in her blood.

“Come here,” she rasped, and he came forward a few inches, a sinful expression on his face. 

She spread her legs, not caring how wanton it felt. She wanted him, was soaking wet for him. He inched closer, the tip of him right at her entrance, his hands keeping her in place, staying still.

“Fedya,” she whimpered, and his smile was a hunter’s; dark and dangerous, thrilling her blood and making her squirm against his grip.

He paused, and she glared at him.

No warning: he thrust into her and Clara cried out with shock and delight. He stilled, his eyes shut, drawing in ragged breaths.

“God, yes,” she whispered, and his eyes opened, glittering wickedly.

“Shall I stop?” he said, his voice guttural, as he began to withdraw, painfully slow, before burying himself to the hilt again.

Clara couldn’t talk, could barely breathe, the feel of him filling her, the shocking sensation of it, again and again, as his pace increased.

One of his hands was holding her steady, the other came forward, his talented fingers finding her clit.

Clara bucked beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him further in, and he grunted, temporarily losing his rhythm. 

He swore, and swallowed. Clara put her hands on his bare chest, feeling the muscles beneath the thin sheen of sweat, tracing the line of the long, raised, red scar with her fingernail, and was rewarded with a dangerous hiss.

“Why the delay, Captain?” Clara bit out on a strangled inhale, tilting her hips up, and he cursed again, slamming into her, his thumb and finger teasing her at the same time.

He was careful at first, his movements deliberate, bringing her to the edge and back again, but she had lain back, wrapping herself around him, and he was starting to lose control, his thrusts fast and wild. She was sobbing out short bursts of air, he was gasping, and she felt that wave building again, cresting, and she had nothing to hold onto until his hands came down beside her, giving him leverage, their bodies rocking, and she gripped onto his forearms before she saw violet patches of light before her eyes, before her senses were overcome, awash with pleasure. She felt his climax, heard him swear again, felt him jerk inside her, his body stuttering against hers, then stilling. They stayed there, joined and unmoving, their breaths slowing down in the sudden quiet of the room.

He lifted one of his hands and brought it up against her back, pulling her up, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder, felt him kiss her hair and take a shuddering breath.

She lifted her head and they looked at each other; he reminded her of a satisfied wildcat. She laughed. 

“How long have we been building to that point?”

He licked his lips, his pupils wide.

“Since the second I saw you.” 

“I shall feed your pride and I will be honest with you; when I first saw you I thought you were the most handsome man I ever saw.”

He gave her a confident, smug nod.

“And,” she continued, grinning,

“I could absolutely not tolerate you. The things you said to me! As if I were merely prey for your scandalous agenda.”

He laughed. “Was this not scandalous enough, Clara? I can think of other things.”

She kissed him, smiling, and then looked around, pushing loose curls away from her eyes.

“The library!” She gestured towards the shelves of books. “I had not even noticed. I am sorry, my friends, for that shocking display of impropriety.”

Dolokhov leaned forward and gave her neck a chaste kiss.

“Is that more appropriate?”

“Yes.” 

He was watching her as she looked around the impressive room, his face serious.

“Will you not miss this? Having such a grand estate to use and explore at your leisure?”

Clara focused back on him, surprised. “My status as a Lady will give us a comfortable life. You know this, Fedya.”

“Not as comfortable as this. I wish I could give you more.” He stepped away, began re-arranging his disheveled clothes. “I wish I could give you every room you want; all the libraries in the world.”

“I have no need of all the rooms and libraries in the world.”

“I still wish I could give them to you.”

She was exasperated; his expression frustrated. She knew they were still adapting to each other’s strong personalities. Some days, they had to tread carefully; their passion skirting the line of anger. She had a lethal tongue; he had a rash, quickly-changing temper. They were still learning. 

Most days, though, it was effortless. His well-developed sense of humour broke her defences, and her calm logic soothed his restlessness. 

He gave a sudden laugh. “I think I have need of all the libraries, especially if this is how you tend to act in them.”

She smiled; and he wrapped an arm neatly around her waist, helping her slide off the desk. He walked to the nearest shelf.

“Do all of these titles belong to your cousins?”

“There are a precious few that are mine alone,” Clara said, shaking out her dress and smoothing her hands down it. She walked to a corner with as much dignity as she could muster and delicately pulled a very worn book from its spot. 

“This one has been in my family for generations.” She opened the pages carefully, turning the leaves and showing him. 

“I think it has only survived because it is similar in creation to a religious manuscript. Most of the other pages have crumbled, but a few are parchment, and are still legible.”

Fedya studied the open page, reading the neatly scripted French. “Treatments and instructions for fever after the setting of a broken jaw?”

He looked at Clara, amused. “Definitely not a Book of Hours. That is quite the heirloom.”

She laughed. “According to family legend, it comes from a convent outside of Paris. I do not know the story of how it came back to us, but I am named for a distant relative, there. A great aunt, many times over.”

Clara grinned. “The Duchess said it was highly inappropriate and very unladylike to have such a book in my possession.” 

She turned the page, pointing to faint markings in which could be seen an illustration of a jawbone, unhinged. Not entirely accurate, but remarkably good.

Dolokhov gave a shake of his head, rubbing his own jaw.

“I would hate to think what that felt like, poor devil. I would bet it is a good story, nuns treating an injury like that.”

She nodded. “I wish I knew it. All I know, is this,” and she turned to the first few pages, stopping at the flyleaf.

She read aloud,

“Pro servitio uirorum Galliae. Sit serve sunt paginae, quibus vicissim vos.”  
_For the brave men in the service of France. May these pages, in turn, serve you._

He smiled. “Not a normal sentiment coming from a convent. That strength I admire runs deep in your blood.”

Clara looked at him, astonished.

“Not a normal ability for a solider, to know Latin.”

He shrugged.

“I picked up a small amount.”

She closed the book in her hand and took Dolokhov’s outstretched hand with her other.

“You will have to tell me the story, when we have time.”

“Clara, my darling, we have all the time in the world.”

She smiled at him, giving him a graceful nod.

“That is true. I suppose we must finish here and leave for St. Petersburg.”

He nodded. “And then?” 

Clara stepped back into her shoes and reached up her hand, combing her fingers through his hair, taming the wilder waves left from their passion. 

“And then, Captain, we are free to do whatever we like.”

He gave her another flash of his wolfish smile before they left the library, shutting the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things - this is preettttty shocking that Dolokhov and Clara did this. However, if anyone doesn't give a damn, it's these two. They deserve it after all their near misses. I hope it paid off. Clara would have been taken by surprise by Dolokhov, er, giving her extra attention, which was fun. She was married, but you can bet her previous husband did no such thing (or was any good in general.)  
> Also, did you know that most women wore crotchless panties in the early 1800s? Or pantaloons, and styles tended to differ from Britain to France, etc. Something I learned before I had Dolokhov all over her. I am still highly, awfully nervous about writing smut!
> 
> Side note: Dolokhov is a romantic, and I think he'd be completely unafraid to whisper endearments, etc, (also would probably be into dirty ones too!) so he calls her "darling Clara" a few times - I think it fits. He wouldn't be over-the-top, but he'd mean it sincerely.
> 
> A HUGE thanks goes out to under_my_blue_umbrella for all her Literary Musketeer advice/careful reading/suggestions and feedback. I feel as if this fic is partly co-authored by you! 
> 
> If you read the truly excellent "In Blood and Silence You Speak the Truth" 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988571/chapters/39933225
> 
> you will catch that Clara's inherited book is the one that her namesake, Sister Clara, transcribed for Sister Marie and is gifted to Aramis. The broken jaw mentioned is of course, Athos'. :D (So Clara may not know the story of her book, but you can read it and know yourself!)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of Dolokhov and Clara, an indeterminate amount of time after the last chapter, through a stranger's eyes.

“Captain Dolokhov’s wife is very beautiful, is she not? Who is she?” Princess Anya had recently moved to Petersburg from Moscow. She was very young, and traded faithfully and earnestly in local gossip.

The ladies’ heads turned in the direction of the dance floor. The dashing Captain had a well-known reputation that preceded him; the Princess had been well aware of who he was. She had heard very shocking stories about him, and was thrilled to discover that he was even more handsome in reality than in her imagination.

Anya had heard he had been married: it had been the subject of conversation within her circle for months. She had seen them earlier at the card table, the lady boldly placing bets, her husband’s arm bent leisurely around the back of her chair, looking lethally proud.

Lady Orlov's expression was a bit sour.

“That is the Lady Clara.”

Anya studied the couple. They had a breathtaking quality together, and it was not just due to the Captain's dashing looks, or the lady's obvious beauty.

“She is very refined; she was a Countess once, before giving up her title. Could you imagine doing that, for such a well-known scoundrel!” This was said by another of the women, and they all nodded their agreement.

None of them said a word about the adoration on the Captain’s face as he danced with his wife, which implied that perhaps the Lady Clara had gained more than she had given up.

"Are they in St. Petersburg for the season?"

"No, they are to visit London; the Captain is on leave between military exercises and apparently both of them wish to travel.”

They watched the pair whirl about the floor. There was something about the two of them that suggested a daring blurring of the lines. They danced a touch more closely than was strictly decorous; the Captain's embrace a tad too intimate. There was a private intensity between them that had Anya feeling as if she were intruding just by watching them.

She turned away, blushing, and the conversation turned to Prince Mikhailoff. Wasn’t he handsome, and so eligible!

The music ended to general applause. Anya snuck another glimpse of Captain Dolokhov and Lady Clara. Unlike the other couples, they were still standing close; Clara was turned into her husband’s chest, her hands on him. Dolokhov leaned down and whispered something into her ear, and she gave him a quick reply, her eyebrow arched. His handsome face broke into laughter, and he pulled her towards him, his mouth to hers. They drew apart, but not before Anya saw him nip playfully at Clara’s earlobe. Anya gasped in delighted shock.

She heard Lady Orlov’s _tsk_ beside her.

"Such scandalous behaviour."

Captain Dolokhov and Lady Clara left the floor, their body language in tandem. As they passed the seated group of ladies, Anya caught Lady Clara’s eye. She was stunning; a very austere cast to her elegant features, made only slightly less impressive by her friendly wink at Anya as she swept past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show how their marriage would look to an outside observer - I can absolutely picture that they would be quite the pair to see.
> 
> That's the end. I - I don't want to say goodbye, so I'm pretty sure I'll post the story of Dolokhov meeting Mikhailoff. Right now, though, I'm going to, god, I don't know what I'm going to do. :P 
> 
> Thank you again for reading and commenting! If I were there in person I'd hug you, sit down and chat and laugh and cry over books and Tom Burke with you.


End file.
